Absolution
by Idalove2read
Summary: Welcome to the 13th Hunger Games! A time when discord and tensions afflict the districts and the Capitol alike. And amidst the intrigue, the murder and the drama, tributes struggle to stay alive while weaving together a tale of friendships, tragedy, betrayal and hope, gleams of which are rare enough already. May the odds be ever in your favour. SYOT.
1. Prologue: Genesis

_Ever since you were born you've been dying  
Every day a little more you've been dying  
Dying to reach the setting sun_

_As a child, with your mind on the horizon  
Over corpses, to the prize you kept your eyes on  
Trying to be the chosen one_

_All those things that you desire  
You will find here in the fire_

_Put your hands up and reach for the sky  
Cry for absolution_

'_Absolution', Ghost_

* * *

Prologue 1 

**Milo Zimmermann, The Capitol, 2 months before the 13****th**** Games**

"Stop clowning around, you two!"

"Hah, good one." Milo muttered under his breath, even though his eyes did not leave his bright screen where messages of varying degrees of emergency popped up on the holopad. As if they'd ever stop messing around, when the deadline to finish the project was so close. Too close for his liking. Cyrellia still somehow managed to hear his input and dutifully smacked him across the back of his cleanly-shaved head.

All in all, the workplace wasn't bad. By anyone else's standards, it would even be qualified as absolutely enthralling, considering the pay, the allocated vacation and the sheer honor of the job. The expectations though…they wore out the most rough and rugged Gamemakers and ground them to a dust before they hit 45 years of age. Spit them out like food that has gone bad. Rotten they were, the whole lot of them. Not Cyrellia though, who was once again heavily pregnant and positively beaming at Quill from across the room. No indication of a burnout there, then. To come to think of it, Milo isn't sure if he's ever seen Cyrellia not in the process of carrying a baby to term. The woman was a baby-incubator and proud of it, really.

Despite his annoyance at her sometimes-over-the-top demeanor, he had to admit she wasn't half-bad. She was strong. Not unlike most of the Capitol people who had survived the Dark Days. He remembered the war as a young soldier in the Capitol army, barely able to lift the cutting-edge-technology weapons they were provided with, to crush any resistance. She remembered it as a mother of two, cowering in a basement cellar as explosive devices rained upon the houses nearby. Her youngest died in that war, after all, and she was still here smiling and planning the murder of twenty-three more children, year after year. That's what strength was all about, getting back up and being able to stomach doing what was right by you, even if it was horrifying and regretful and _wrong_. Milo wasn't delusional enough to think that what they were doing here was anything short of abhorrent, but it was necessary for maintaining the order throughout the districts.

Sometimes it was almost easy to forget the moral implications of what he was doing, what Quill and Cyrellia were doing. They were just putting on a show for the country. An unforgettable show that would make the districts tremble, elevate one odds-defying tribute to god-like status and entertain the Capitol crowds that were able to forget disaster a lot quicker than he ever could. If anything, this career permitted him to get up at 9AM on most days and loiter around the parking lot while eating his President-sponsored balanced breakfast (which really was glorified oatmeal with little bits of fruits). He couldn't for the life of him comprehend why the President, of all people, would promote this garbage but, it was free and oddly filling and Milo wasn't Cyrellia, so he didn't complain about it. If he squinted at it from the wrong angle, the control exerted over his team as well as the other Games-related jobs was almost-suffocating. Everything was monitored, from the portions of fruit they allowed themselves to take, to the private discussions they held during their breaks. That was his life for the past while, he made peace with it. Everything was monitored but nothing was forbidden, strictly speaking, until it was, and you got a bullet in your skull for your troubles. That was an _extreme_, he had to remind himself. It rarely came to extremes in this job where food, shelter and sleep was all but guaranteed. Sleeping a lot was part of his whole get-up, excluding the many weeks prior and during the Games, of course. During those months, he just had to subsist on caffeine and stress alone, but delegating his job to lesser employees for the rest of the year was a pretty sweet trade-off, wasn't it? Besides, he had minimal contact with the actually-human aspect of things: he was the _designer_, the one who assured that the show onscreen would be as aesthetic as possible. Maybe that's why in the past few years, Milo started appreciating the District 1 and 2 tributes more and more. They were able to compliment the hard work he had put in and truly make it shine. With blood, more often than not, but as he has completely and utterly convinced himself by now, death and gore was its own kind of beautiful.

"…Milo? Have you approved the mutt designs yet?...Milo?"

Cyrellia's expectant high voice shook him out of his thoughts and he sheepishly blinked twice at the young-looking woman in front of him with her hands on her hips, comically tapping her foot on the ground in front of him.

"Stop looking at me like an owl and please just ans-"

Milo tuned her out as he put on the extra-large headphones and elected to open up the files that the guys at Games Organization, Design and Analysis (GODA, for short) sent him. These were …interesting designs. He wouldn't call them strictly original, but a little bit of tweaking would turn this arena into something worth watching.

Once upon a time, he had had dreams of becoming an artist. Years ago, he had studied anatomy and movement so meticulously, in order to recreate the shapes in an accurate and hauntingly beautiful way. Back in the day, all he knew was how to make things beautiful. Then they handed him a gun, and he could name the anatomical region, the muscle, the tendon where each shot landed, which bone was fractured by the explosives, which artery had been punctured by the shrapnel. After a while, death came with its own kind of breathtaking awe. Somewhere along the line, he stopped being the Milo who strived so desperately to capture deceitful beauty and became a man who, for all intents and purposes, was the executioner of the district's offspring every year. He had to make it beautiful too, akin to a scalpel catching the light in an elegant manner before sinking into skin. Back in his youth, he could have been anything, and now he was a Gamemaker, a sealer of fate and a deliverer of doom. Kind of melodramatic when you think of it, but what were they if not a mismatched squad of overly-dramatic assholes trying to put together a spectacle the likes of which Panem has never seen before? After twelve games and counting, it was becoming increasingly difficult. After all, sandy arenas and roped-off forested planes could only go so far.

_SNAP_.

His headphones came off with a twinging sound. God, why did Cyrellia have to be so physical with everyone?

"Can you please focus on what I'm saying for a second before continuing to look like you ate a goddamn lemon?" Cyrellia exclaimed just as Milo, rolling his eyes hard enough to sprain an eyeball muscle (his medial and lateral recti muscles, to be exact, Milo thought without humor), gave up his attempts at ignoring her and sat up straight to listen.

"Sorry Cyra, what do you want me to do?"

"Does this dress make me look fat?" she asks deadpan and then flops down in the rolling plush chair next to him and kicks off, propelling herself at moderate speed towards the other end of the room, while laughing loudly.

God this place annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, and he had to deal with these idiots on a daily basis… but these were _his_ idiots and most of the ones sitting here today got their job before him, so he had to demonstrate at least an ounce of respect towards them. He waited patiently for her to get to the point.

"Seriously though, how are the designs coming along?"

They were coming, that's all he could say for now. Milo simply nodded in response. He thought it conveyed the message quite nicely.

"Not in a talkative mood today, alriiiiiiight!" Cyrellia exclaimed with so much exuberant enthusiasm that Milo had to repress an active wince. She could be a total pain in the ass. She knew Milo would only tell her once everything was meticulously organized and written out in full, but she still enjoyed seeing the even-more-sour look that appeared on his face, any time she nagged him about it. That was their whole dynamic, for the past 4 years. Cyrellia leeching onto him and making his life miserable and at the end of the day, sharing a gigantic plate of homemade delicious food, stating that she was tired of seeing his miserable scrawny ass patrolling the halls of their establishment like the ghost of some District demon-child.

Although he'd never suggest it out loud, Milo suspected she preferred the guy that came before him and was playing the longest game of denial-and-systematic-replacement-of-poor-dead-asshole-with-Milo. And he _was_ dead, of that Milo was assured, after the designs that were put up under his supervision drained Capitol-tax money and yielded the most abysmal goddamn reviews. That particular set of Gamemakers was deposed of fairly quickly after that.

Cyrellia and Quill and Jazz. Those were the only three that had survived that particular purging of Gamemakers and Milo intended to join their ranks in securing his position. After all, he'd get tenure by the end of these Games, whatever the hell that meant in this day and age. But first, before dreaming up a future that went beyond being executed out-back unceremoniously and dumped into an unnamed grave, he had to finish approving these sketches. Milo looked them over, took out his pen, and started writing corrections. They only had two more months, the arena was completed, and all the structures were being put into place. The big problem were the mutts, which Jazz had procrastinated on, and now Milo felt a twinge of pity for the team of biologists and engineers and whoever else was responsible for bringing their creations into existence. It wouldn't be easy, but he promised himself it would be worth it.

* * *

****

**Cyrellia**** Willis, ****The Capitol****, 2 months before the 13****th**** Games**

After getting her third virgin daiquiri of the day (sue her for taking full advantage of the beverages package Gamemakers were provided with up until 55 days before the Games), Cyrellia was bored. Truly and utterly bored.

She looked over at Milo, deep in thought and doodling some last-minute improvements on the mutations that would patrol the arena this year. From the looks of it, they looked freaky enough. She smiled at the thought. She was a real horror-movie fan, when it came down to it, and always approved of a properly and utterly horrifying arena over a classic one. Forest arenas were _alright_, nothing wrong with forest arenas, she reminded herself. Still, there was something so innovative when you had to conceptualize buildings or trenches or underground facilities from scratch! She was lucky too, she was a glorified Head Gamemaker's assistant, which sounded kind-of lame on paper but really, she got the second-best seat in the house when it came down to it.

She was happy it was a scary arena this time around. The one problem with her is that she had a hard time applying herself if the arena was _shit_. As simple as that. If the arena scheme was boring, Quill would see the disapproval written all over her face, figuratively, for the next 290 days. Sometimes he'd see it written literally all over her shirt, when she came in, sporting a sequin shirt with "The Arena is Garbage!" sown in meticulously with sequins of another color, stretched tight across her growing belly.

Cyrellia was nothing if not dedicated and a little bit out of her mind, and at the end of the day, she knew Quill appreciated the frankness with which she stated her opinions. She also knew that her ditching the team and loafing around for the entire year could only work for so long, in the name of artistic integrity. Either way, she liked the arena this year, and she liked to think she put in the necessary effort, Milo's judgmental looks be damned. No sequin shirts this time around. Or at least, no sequin shirts that would risk her getting shot through the head by the helmet-and-armor-clad guards the President kept around their facility.

Speaking of Milo… Cyrellia wheeled herself back to his desks and parked herself right in front of him.

"Seriously, can you give me anything on the plotline Quill will be trying to push this year? He won't tell me shit, and I wanna finally be in on it."

Milo rubbed his forehead in annoyance. She smiled at that, taking it as a point in her favor, in their unspoken-about-but-totally-there game of who could piss the other one off more.

"If you tell me it's another loyalty-is-rewarded-rebels-are-punished arc, I swear to god I will hurl," she persisted, seeing Milo's mouth quirk up slightly. He knew how much she hated rebels, how traumatized the fighting that took place in the Capitol had left her, but again, aesthetics and hate were two different things. Demonizing rebels was a thing, certainly, but like, come on, something more original hadn't come along since the 5th Games.

Milo was keeping silent. Maybe he didn't know any more than she did, or maybe her delicious potato casserole hadn't convinced him to spill the beans, but Cyrellia decided that ultimately it wasn't worth her time. Fuck it, as she loved to say out loud. So be it, the clock was already showing quarter to 3, and she had already completed the paperwork Quill had assigned her. Contrarily to Milo's judgmental comments, when she actually came to doing her work, she did it well.

In this profession, you never know whether this move or the next will be a stepping stone to a promotion or your last hurrah in this world, and she didn't particularly mind. She knew she was well-liked, well-connected and well-impregnated, which put her fairly high on the list of people that it would simply be too impolite to execute. No one liked to execute moms, especially not ones that were 110% on board with the Capitol repopulation campaign the President had been pushing for the past while. Moms who, for all intents and purposes, were creating a legion of mini-Cyrellia's, who came running around the office once in a while, to Milo's horror.

She wasn't stupid enough to think that her top-notch quality never-late never-questionable work is what kept her alive. First, from the starvation and disease that claimed the lives of the most-fortunate alongside those born in poverty. Then, from the throngs of terrorists who patrolled the streets during the weeks prior to the Capitol forces regaining control of their city. And lately, from the President himself, who executed a large portion of her collegues because of a fluke. Life was fickle and no one knew that better than Cyrellia. She just knew how to create walls upon walls of protection and if someone was strong to break them down, well, that was fucked. Cyrellia was nothing if not willful, determined to have a great time and do things her own way. That's why she had gotten the job in the first place and why she had secured it for so long, when others failed repeatedly. She was good at what she did and she enjoyed it, and as far as she was concerned, that was enough. They still had a ton of time on their hands, and she'd get some propaganda-message-related information out of Quill soon enough.

Cyrellia gave one last look to Milo, sighed exasperatedly and flicked a piece of paper towards him. Of course, she missed him, but still elicited the huff of annoyance she had come to anticipate. She smiled cheekily, clocked out, and her heels were heard ticking across the sparkling-clean floor as she hummed a happy tune on her way out of the office. 

* * *

_NOTES:_

_First chapter, Done! I am beyond excited to start this. After years upon years of lurking, reading and reviewing, I finally decided to launch myself into this head first. I tried to set the scene for the story, and some more details will unravel in the upcoming chapters of the prologue but essentially, we are roughly 2 months away from the 13__th__ Hunger Games. Tensions are high, people are getting executed, the usual excitement is afoot._

_Send me your tributes, send me a PM or review this story! Either way, it'll make me incredibly happy to hear input from you. I will try to upload the next chapter on Sunday. Or I might wing it and do it before. Either way, it leaves you with plenty of time to decide whether you want to embark with me on this epic journey where laughs will be had, tears will be shed and blood will be spilled. The form is going to be on my profile shortly. _

_Peace and love._


	2. Prologue: Chained

"_Life is a beautiful journey, full of joy and pain__  
__You never know when it will end, don't let a moment pass in vain…__  
__In the whole ruckus of life, nothing had I gained,__  
__I just wanted freedom, no more did I wanted to be chained…" _

_Mehek Bassi_

* * *

Prologue 2

**Quill Daemeon, The Capitol, 2 months before the 13****th**** Games**

Mr. Daemeon walked with deliberate measured steps towards the tall white doors that stretched towards an intricately decorated ceiling. His soft footfalls did not betray the nervousness that made his stomach sink down and his throat dry up. He was, after all, two minutes late to his meeting with the President of Panem. Two minutes that could mean the difference between life and death, on a bad day._ Today wasn't a bad day_, Mr. Daemeon reminded himself. Today was a day of celebration, the day the Capitol was liberated and the day when the first Games had been implemented.

Before he even came on board as a freshly-out-of-college assistant to the Games Design team, an executive decision had been made to push back the Games two months. Something about ratings being higher if this kind of entertainment was televised in the summer months, where both kids and adults alike would take vacation. Everyone seemed to be in a more bloodthirsty mood in the summer, it seemed. Mr. Daemeon wouldn't be the one to disagree with that.

He knocked on the door, which opened abruptly. A ghostly figure inside the brightly lit room quickly let go of the door handle and retreated in a corner as quickly as it appeared in front of him. The idea of Avoxes never sat well with Mr. Daemeon, but their use was two-fold: punishment and free labor. As much as he loathed to admit it, the idea made sense.

"Come in, Quill, come on in," a deep voice further in beckoned him inside the office. The Presidential office. As if by reflex, Mr. Daemeon quickly ran a hand through his black hair and entered. President Antonius Daemeon sat in his practical but comfortable work chair, leaning towards the left side and eyeing the still-open door.

"How are the state of affairs for the Games?" the President casually asked the man who, minutes before, had commandeered absolute respect from his subordinate Gamemakers. The one who previously had been quasi-unanimously known as Mr. Daemeon was now only Quill, laid bare before the President's piercing yet calm gaze. Quill locked the door meticulously and walked up a mere few feet behind the President's chair.

"Everything is going according to plan, Mr. President, I am personally overseeing the Design team to be sure the work is completed within the next month. We will have one entire month for testing and optimization."

The President chuckled at that and stood up. He lifted his hand and dropped it affectionately on Mr. Daemeon's shoulder, bringing the younger man closer.

"Quill, you gotta relax a little bit. I know I'm President, but I'm also your uncle. Breathe a little, don't be so formal."

Mr. Daemeon managed a small smile while relaxing his composure slightly.

"Sorry, I apologize, I'm just a little…worried, it's nothing."

The President smiled again and walked to the beautiful large window that overlooked the spacious gardens where workers were slaving away to keep the grass green and perfectly trimmed.

"You remind me so much of Kiara, you walk like her, you have her temperament…Quill, you need to take it easy, once in a while." He paused, as though consumed with a sudden unpleasant thought and turned around to inspect a military report from the peacekeeping force stationed in District 12. From this angle, Quill admired how imposing he looked.

The President was a broad-shouldered tall man, with a muscular build that hinted at his previous military service. His clean-shaven head glistened in the light coming from the window, catching slightly on the scar that extended from his left temple to the occipital portion of his skull. His bushy eyebrows were expressive enough, lacking however the severity that marred the expression of his predecessors. A lot of people had underestimated his iron will and ability to sacrifice hordes of citizens to achieve his goal, due to his friendly disposition. He was, after all, just a charismatic man who liked order. He was also the man that led the Capitol to victory, putting an end to the rebellion of the districts in an almost-savage display of violence. He was elected by the Capitol people, after the interim President formally requested a candidate step forward to take control of the country in the midst of the worst hunger crisis of the past century. He knew how to charm and rule people, and in Panem's case, he was the man for the job of leading a country that had just emerged from the ashes of a rotten civilization.

In Quill's case, President Anthonius Daemeon had been known as 'uncle' for most of his life. Very few people knew this, and Mr. Daemeon would bring this secret to his grave, but President Antonius Daemeon had once been Any, his mother Kiara's younger stubborn brother. Kiara and Any were inseparable as children, and throughout their adult life. At least that's what Quill's mother had told him. To the President, Mr. Daemeon melted away and all that was left was Quill whom he had taught to be creative, to be successful, to be understanding, efficient and merciless when need be. To Mr. Daemeon, he saw his role model for whom he held only juvenile adoration and veneration throughout his first two decades of life. To think of it, Mr. Daemeon could count on one hand the number of people that called him Quill. His uncle, who happened to be the most powerful man in Panem, was one of them. Milo, the newcomer that had quickly grown on him was another. He reminded Mr. Daemeon of himself which is why they got along so well. Cyrellia and Jazz too, his partners in crime in the Gamemaker control center and Pax, his best friend and lover who he swore he wouldn't ever let near the others. Finally, his mother Kiara, who died 4 years ago. That was it. Those were the people who cared deeply about him, whether they showed it or not.

Mr. Daemeon nodded, acknowledging the President's statement, sat down in the chair adjacent to the President's and took out his holopad. The lights flicked to life, projecting a multitude of plans, schemes and drafts on the oak desk. There was still a lot of work to be done, but the President was in a good mood today, and Mr. Daemeon was out of his mind if he was going to let such an opportunity slip through his fingers.

* * *

The Head Gamemaker left the President's office, smiling softly, an anecdote or another on his lips. The smile melted away as soon as he turned the corner, his breathing evening out and his hands turning into fists as he quickened his step.

These meetings were always… a _mixed_ bag, to say the least. They made Mr. Daemeon so painful aware of the nepotism which contributed to his ascension to the position of Head Gamemaker. They made him even more aware of his powerlessness to take control of his life, as though his trachea was constantly crushed underneath his uncle's foot. He loved his uncle, he thought. He had to love him, since he was his only family left after his mother decided to get herself killed while picking a fight she couldn't win. It wasn't his uncle's fault per say. _But it might have been_, an insistent voice insidiously whispered somewhere deep in his brain, as he hurried through the corridors, picked up his black coat and practically ran to the sleek black car waiting for him outside the Presidential Palace.

He couldn't keep thinking like that. He owed his uncle everything. He wasn't stupid enough to think that he had achieved the pinnacle of his career at the mere age of thirty-three due to skill alone. It wasn't just chance. Neither were the unlucky "coincidences" that had crippled his family and his friends, any time someone so much as thought of treason against his uncle. Some days, when he was alone in his apartment, he imagined that everything that befell him had been his own doing. It couldn't all be his uncle's doing. _But it might have been, after all_. Mr. Daemeon shook his head as his ride sped across the clean highway. He had to stop, he couldn't afford to think this way now, not with the deadline approaching, not when his team needed him at his best.

The President had been pleased with the arena, commenting on the originality and the unpredictability factors that Mr. Daemeon was careful to account for, ever since the disastrous Games from 4 years ago. However, his nephew's nervousness had clearly irked him. Mr. Daemeon knew that because he had commented on it a couple of times, mentioning Kiara one time too many for it to be an accident. Mr. Daemeon knew his uncle was sizing him up, testing him whether he was good enough for the job. The President wanted to make sure, after all, that his nephew wouldn't make the same mistake as his predecessor, it happened every year. _This year is different though_, a tiny voice reminded Mr. Daemeon.

If Cyrellia knew, she would definitely say that "some sketchy bullshit was afoot" and for once, Mr. Daemeon couldn't agree more. For the first time in months, he wanted nothing more than to talk to his old friend, ask for her advice, as brutal and honest as it often could be. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was being watched more than ever; his movements at work monitored to an extent they hadn't been before the 3rd anniversary of his mother's death. Deep down, Mr. Daemeon knew his mother had been responsible for something unspeakable, something treasonous. Something serious enough that it had been hushed up immediately, and she had been found dead, disfigured beyond belief, allegedly raped and killed by the gang members that his uncle made haste to execute publicly. Mr. Daemeon had even half-believed it, until a year later, when the Secret Service had barged into his office one busy day, requested his signature for consent of investigation and confiscated all his mother's belongings. Once again, Mr. Daemeon wasn't stupid. He had known something was wrong, but his mother never told him what exactly she had gotten involved in. He wanted to tell Cyrellia or Pax or anyone, he wanted to figure it out, but he couldn't and how fucking frustrating did _that_ get sometimes?

All he knew was that one day she was Head Gamemaker, running the show and, he was a junior Games' designer with some talent and some guts to follow through some pretty questionable projects. He was comfortable where he was, he had befriended Jazz and Cyrellia. Next thing he knew, his mother was dead, the Games were less than a month away, most of the Games funds had been embezzled for god-knows-what purposes, and he was promoted to Head Gamemaker.

He just about had three stress aneurysms that day alone. He remembered vaguely the sleepless nights, the frantic panicking with Cyrellia scrambling together a barely-thought-out plan. It was a haze now, and it had been a haze then, when the entire arena had collapsed in on itself, leaving them with the most expensive Games in history, a run time of three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, twenty-three teenagers dead from the debris and a mentally handicapped and traumatized Victor to boot. Despite the haze, he vividly remembered the 28 people he had been in charge of, of whom only Cyrellia and Jazz remained. The rest were dead somewhere, paying for someone else's grave mistake. _His_ mistake, down the line. He remembered best of all the choking feeling of absolute despair and confusion.

To be quite honest this time around, his uncle's prying and the ever-restricting invisible noose around his neck felt pretty much the same. _That was just the Games getting to him_, he thought.

Either way, he was almost home, and tonight was no time for brooding. Tonight, he had plans with Pax who he hadn't seen ever since the younger man began his surgical shifts a week ago at the Fallen Heroes Hospital, an old relic of a health center that had become a makeshift clinic during the Dark Days, but since then had become a huge surgical facility.

Pax was arguably the best person in the whole world. He certainly was in Mr. Daemeon's eyes. Pax was a registered nurse, a bright young man with a dashing rueful smile and the most brilliant sense of humour. But it was his absolutely unyielding drive to do good, his kindness and his selflessness that made Mr. Daemeon's heart ache with love. Because it was love, Mr. Daemeon thought, _true_ love.

Mr. Daemeon opened the door and tried to wipe off the look of helplessness off his features, running a hand through his hair out of habit. Pax's apartment was small and homely, with a faint burnt smell escaping the kitchen.

"Hey babe, I'm so happy you're home! You're going to go _crazy_ when you see what I got you."

Pax's voice exuded happiness and optimism and everything Mr. Daemeon strived to feel.

"Hey Pax," Mr. Daemeon called from the hallway, hastily taking off his lacquered shoes and taking off his jacket.

Pax's face popped out behind the wall, his smile lighting up the room as his eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Hey Quill!"

For the second time today, Mr. Daemeon melted away and what was left was just Quill, exhausted and desperate for any form of affection that didn't come with a price tag. Contrarily to everyone else, with Pax it was simple. The young man sat on the couch of their small and tasteful apartment, beckoned him quickly to sit. He put one hand on his lap, the other resolutely hidden behind him. Quill sat and stared at him, taking him in.

"You really do need a break Quill, you look awful," Pax mused as he sat closer and patted Quill on the leg. Quill acquiesced. Maybe when these Games were over. Maybe there was a way to just take Pax and run far away from this life, as far away as possible.

"Look what I got us," Pax continued, and Quill just wanted to hug him and kiss him and stay like this forever. Pax opened his hand, revealing a small rectangular box. Quill's heart sped up. He opened it, revealing a pair of tickets, a ring and a really atrocious-looking cookie. A ring?

"I know what you're going to say, but before you do, I didn't waste my month's pay on these tickets," Pax hastily said while looking a little guilty, as Quill looked at him with near-panic in his eyes.

Quill was about to interject that this was totally _NOT_ what he was most concerned about, there was a fucking _ring_ in there, and then Pax got on his knee and put his hand on Quill's and shit hit the fan.

"Quill, calm the fuck down, I really want to marry you."

And that was it. What the _fuck_ was happening, Quill's brain was misfiring signals and just. What the fuck was _going on_. Who the fuck proposed with tickets for an expensive-ass exclusive Capitol Lightnings vs. Panem Golems game as a backup option? Why the fuck was there a _cookie_?

In the back of his mind, he knew his uncle would find out about Pax. That was the scariest thought of them all, and he had about a thousand of them whirring through his poor brain at that very instant. Quill was already monitored at work and at his own apartment, but at least Pax wasn't. He had kept Pax safe. He had taken such precautions to only meet at Pax's place, kept him out of the public eye. Marriage was…something else completely. They'd have to be registered officially. Pax would be used as a bargaining chip whenever he had a slip up or another and that wasn't something he was ready to commit to. He couldn't do that to Pax.

But frankly, Pax didn't give two shits about what he could and couldn't do.  
"So, you ready for this Lightnings game or what?" Pax quipped, slipping the ring on Quill's finger and totally ignoring his now-fiancé's stunned silence, knowing full-well the answer was a yes, even if Quill was clearly losing his shit at the moment. He was certain the idea would grow on him.

Pax patted him on the leg and as an afterthought, and added cheekily "You better appreciate this fucking cookie, I almost died in my attempts to bake so unless I get a full-on essay about how good it is, I'm retracting everything I've said to you this evening and kicking you out of the apartment."

Quill laughed, nodded and bit the icing-coated cookie with the words "Let's get married" smeared on top of it in a messy and sloppy manner.

"I'd love to marry you." A shitstorm might be coming his way, but right now he was happy and that was it. Sometimes it really was that simple.

* * *

_NOTES: I hope you enjoyed the second prologue chapter! This one dives into the mind of the one and only Head Gamemaker Quill Daemeon, who's having a rough time but also an awesome time because that's just how the Daemeon's roll. He's a neurotic mess, a pretty closed-off guy but he's trying his best okay? _

_Jokes aside, I would love to hear anyone's opinion on this. A review would mean the world to me. Let me know: what character do you identify with most so far? What kind of improvements would you like to see? Is the Quill/Pax ship sailing on the clearest seas or is it too sickly-sweet to your taste? _

_Next chapter will be a sneak-peek into the world of Victors we have so far, so I can't wait for that! Send tributes my way please please pretty please, the form is up on my profile and I would love to get to know your kiddos before I send them off into the Games. I promise I'll be nice (crosses fingers). _

_Peace and love. _


	3. Prologue: Humble Beginnings

"An Oak tree is a daily reminder that great things often have small beginnings."  
― Matshona Dhliwayo

* * *

Prologue 3

**Sujax Torro**  
**Victor of the 1rst Hunger Games**  
**District 2**

In a cabin far in the woods, a man busied himself with baking a large vegetarian pie. A serene melody melted together with the delicious smell of fresh-baked savory bread, creating an atmosphere of pure contentment and warmth. The sounds and the smells, the wooden wall panels and the merry crackling fire assembled this picturesque tableau. The man in question quietly hummed the tune which had survived the Dark Days and would continue living on as long as humanity persisted. The delicate sounds of melancholic violin meshed together with the hopeful flute notes, which floated evasively through the warm cabin. The man took roasted potatoes and richly sautéed carrots out of the modern-looking oven, while looking on approvingly. If anyone was to venture a look at the man in question, they would see a muscular tanned paragon of masculinity, a dark beard accentuating the man's sharp and handsome features. A mop of dark brown hair rested on his head in a way that would make whoever dared spy on the man swoon.

However, in the middle of the mountainous range surrounding the cabin, very few people ventured that far into uninhabited territory. No one would ever witness how this man would be startled momentarily by the chef-shaped cooking timer. No one would witness him laugh to himself quietly and remove a set of twenty-four identical perfectly golden cookies out of a smaller oven set in his futuristic counter made from steel. Looking around, the onlooker would notice how the thematic of steel and wood extended beyond the walls and furniture, onto the ornamental weapons that hung on the man's walls. After all, this was what the man had won with: wood and steel and power.

The man was called Sujax, the first Victor of the Hunger Games. By surveying this scene in particular, no one would ever guess that Sujax had made history by brutally destroying rebel children during the first iteration of this blood sport, popularizing it in Panem as hordes of Capitolites cheered him on. He had killed seven children, four of which had posed next to no issue. The arena that first year had predictably been a large gladiator-like pit, with nearly nowhere to run. The symbolism had not escaped Sujax at the time. After all, the immortal saying "panem et circenses", bread and entertainment, still held true. In the absence of bread, in a Panem decimated by hunger and tragedy, the games became all the more vital. Sujax had been a child-soldier, much like most of the able eighteen-year olds.

His grandfather's grandfather had lived on the land that had become District 2. Sujax had come from a line of hardheaded strong and unyielding people who would not perish or cower at the prospect of war or defense of what belonged to them. It was that conviction of his moral righteousness and aptitude for murder that had assured his place among the legends of Panem. Sujax intimately knew the misery of war, had witnessed and experienced it first-hand. When he was lifted into the arena, it was easy to channel his anger and grief at the loss of his parents, his brothers, his girlfriend and unborn child. It was even easier to laugh as the crying rebel children fell to the ground retching and pissing themselves out of fear, just before he crushed their tracheas with his hands or knocked out their teeth with the steel rebar he had picked up near his pedestal.

One effective kick to the sternum and a finishing hit with his huge mace and the boy-turned-man who had defeated his opponents went going down in history as the first Victor.

At this very moment though, Sujax the Crusher, Sujax the Unbeatable, Sujax the Just was no more, and all that was left was a happy serene man preparing a hearty supper as the moon shone through the spacious windows of his cabin deep in the woods of District 2.

* * *

**Casmir Agarwal**  
**Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games**  
**District 11**

Casmir from District 11 was a prime example of a war-child. By the end of the conflict, he barely remembered his name. He didn't even know his age, reminded of it when he was reaped at 17 and there was no one left to mourn his departure. Casmir's mother and his two little sisters died from disease, shortly before the war broke out. His father got shot down by the police years before, so there was a small mercy in the fact that he never had to see his family suffer through the Dark Days. Casmir had gotten sick himself but pulled through, though his muscles acquired a rigidity he later found out were attributed to the loss of motor neurons due to infection. He got lucky; his muscles were able to regain almost-normal strength following the acute paralytic poliomyelitis infection that killed his siblings in the years that followed. He had fallen sick first, and he credits that being the main factor in his survival. Back then, his family could still afford a home, a comfortable bed, some medicine. When his sisters fell sick, their house had been bombed into oblivion, so all they had left was to lie down in the streets and die, cradled in the arms of his mother who died a few months later.

The shit-covered streets of District 11 were the perfect breeding grounds for bacteria and pestilence of all sorts. After the previous government banned widespread vaccination of the population in order to minimize the burden on the healthcare system, cholera and poliomyelitis sprung up and ravaged the continent once more. The government had blamed it on immigration from foreign countries of course. When he was only four years old, Casmir clearly recalled people talking and looking at him as though he was one of those foreigners, coming to infect the land with his foreign illnesses. He didn't understand it, at the time.

He remembered his father being so angry, so _pissed off_ at the suggestion that they weren't American, that generations ago their families had come from a far-away land of India, but that they had worked so hard to assimilate and that should have been enough. Had his father still been alive, Casmir wouldn't have had the heart to tell him that to the citizens of this dead country, their pledge of loyalty meant close to nothing when weighed against the color of their skin. Years later, Casmir understood the heartbreaking truth of the racism that infected the American society which shattered into dust soon-after. He realized that his father's optimism and completely blind trust in the government had been naively idealistic at best and moronic at worst.

The government didn't give a shit that Casmir's father had been loyal when the police shot him in the head even though he had no weapon on him, posed no threat. Years later, Casmir realized that his father had been shot because his skin was the wrong color, and no pledge of loyalty to America could erase that.

In the arena of the newly-formed Panem, there was no disease or racial discrimination or hate based on his sexuality. It all boiled down to survival, and Casmir would be lying if he said it didn't feel at least a little bit freeing.

He hadn't won like Sujax, a Capitol loyalist through and through. But Casmir was clear about his gratitude to a new government that gave him the opportunity to fight as himself. They loved him for it, he was the perfect example of an outer-district child who had lost everything, but hadn't been perverted by the rebellious cause.

He went in alone, combined his hard-earned knowledge of the streets to navigate an abandoned suburban town arena. He came out alone, having strangled and stabbed his way to victory. He earned four kills to his name and he regretted dreaming every night of the faces of the boys he had killed, but he didn't regret staying alive.

As the sun came up at 5:20AM, Casmir opened the window, inhaled the fresh scent of spring. His husband Quentin, was already hard at work in their garden, pulling out weeds furiously, like his life depended on it. Casmir smiled at the hardworking man and thought to himself that this life really wasn't as bad as it used to be.

* * *

**Glenn Duncan**  
**Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games**  
**District 10**

A baby's cries rang out in the hospital. The nurses and doctors hastened to write down the time of birth, as the mother's pained gasps turned into exhausted sighs. Ophelia was born healthy, the mother and child were released from the maternal wing two days later. When they came home, the black car took a detour route to the Victor's Village, taking care to avoid unwanted attention. A tall slim man with an eye-patch stood on the porch, looking almost nervous as the car backed into the parking space. The man ran down the stairs, opened the door and practically scooped up his wife and the newborn into his scarred arms. His one eye was bright with tears and emotions.

"Glenn, we did it. We did it Glenn," the mother kept whispering into his shoulder and for the first time in a long while, Glenn was happy.

The couple entered their spacious home, secluded from the rest of the district. One new message was one their voice machine.

"_One new message, 10:40AM_. Give all my love to Raella, Glenn. Lend her your strength, and may the baby be born healthy and bring joy to your family. Uncle Sujax says hi!" _BEEP._

The machine let out one last synthetic sound and plunged the room into comfortable silence. Raella giggled girlishly, wiping her forehead with her hand. Glenn had already put the baby into her little crib.

"Uncle Sujax, huh?"

Glenn sighed as though exasperated. "I think he was more excited about this baby than I was."

"Well it was about time," Raella offered, trailing off when she realized it had struck a nerve.

She fidgeted slightly in her seat, and Glenn approached her, wrapping his hands around her and lifting her up easily. She needed sleep and rest, that was clear. He brought her up to their bed room, taking the time to kiss her forehead and wrap soft blankets that enveloped her petite frame like a big white marshmallow.

"Sleep well babe, I'll see you when you wake up."

"Take care of the baby, Glenn. I love you," Raella murmured, already falling asleep.

Glenn went back downstairs, looking at the beautiful newborn child that was also sleeping in its crib. He couldn't believe he was a dad now. The evil part of him didn't deserve this happiness. Of all the people, Sujax had befriended him since the first day of his victory, taught him how to cope with the murder and the haunting flashbacks. He still had them, but it wasn't as bad anymore. Sujax had been there for him when his entire district had shunned him. It wasn't as blatant anymore these days, but he still felt the resentment and the shame that had come with his victory. He guessed than an eye, a metric fuckton of regrets and a disappointed district was a small price to pay…you just had to look at Pulse from two years ago to understand that. Anyway, once the Games became a permanent sort of deal, the district people stopped their judgmental bullshit fairly quickly. Some even started coming up to him on the streets, thanking him for the food that had been provided the year he won. Most of the population had still been starving, but he guessed their pride and self-righteousness was so far up their asses it took them this long to admit it.

Life was weird sometimes, Glenn thought, as he raised his hand to stroke the baby's head, then retracted it just as quickly. Babies had mushy skulls. He shouldn't touch the baby's head, it could break. Even easier than when he broke a thirteen-year old girl's neck. Easier than when he crushed the head of a seventeen-year old boy, by smashing it against a rock.

Ophelia…that was a beautiful name that held so many memories. But Glenn was strong, and he'd learnt over the years how to overcome the crippling sadness and guilt that threatened his relationship with Raella when he returned. When he was reaped, they were planning to get married, leave their rebellious ties behind and settle. Start a family.

She had gotten pregnant at 18, and three months later, he was fighting for his life in front of all of Panem. She miscarried the day he killed the District 4 girl named Ophelia. He won that day too, so he supposed it was a life for a life for a life. It was twisted, but he was grateful for the opportunity to keep on living.

Sujax had hammered that concept into his stupid brain, after he had caught him trying to drink his weight in whiskey, at a Capitol bar. That was the night Glenn had introduced Sujax to a very pissed-off Raella over the phone. She was livid, even threatening to break-up their engagement if he didn't straighten up his shit. Sujax had patiently and politely listened to her ranting. Even drunk off his ass, Glenn had been in awe at the balls required to yell so aggressively at a man that had killed seven people a mere two years ago. Glenn was so wasted he had forgotten he had killed that exact same number of people himself. When she was finished, Raella hung up, telling Sujax she would pack up her stuff and leave if Glenn didn't stop drinking that very night. She said, and he remembered that sentence word for word, "I am not going to spend the rest of my life cleaning up a mess after a pathetic excuse for a human being who can't even face his regrets head-on". Dead ass, Raella came up with inspirational savage shit like that on the fly. Glenn could barely string an intelligible sentence together and here she was, spewing poetry up his ass or some shit. He had told Sujax that much, who had clapped him hard on the back and led him out the bar.

They had a long walk that night, just the two of them. Glenn had a lot of shit explained to him, and he figured a lot of shit out himself. Ten years later and he still relied on Sujax for advice, but he was doing so much better. He made peace with what he had done and he was happy. Raella was there for him, and even though life wasn't perfect, Glenn was ready to work his ass off to make sure his daughter had a brighter future. One that didn't involve murder and alcohol abuse and regrets that threatened to drown you.

* * *

**Eli Meisel**  
**Victor of the 4th Hunger Games**  
**District 3**

"Aunt Eli, Aunt Eli, auntEliaunteliaunteliaunteliaunteli…"

A small redhead was jumping up and down, the top of her head only barely passing the low window sill of Eli's house.

"AuntEliAuntEli can we please play space-rangers again, you be the alien and I'll be the captain of the ship, weneedtogoplaynowit'sgonnabesofun…"

It was 8AM in the morning. The woman sitting in front of her computer sighed exasperatedly, closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead. A huge cardboard spacesuit sat in the corner of her living room, with a child's writing all over it. It had thrusters and orange-red fire coming out of them, and it looked positively banged up from their last escapade.

"I'm coming kiddo, just give aunt Eli a second, okay?"

The little girl's jumping stopped, and Eli heard the patter of small feet distancing themselves from the window, as she undoubtedly ran to the front porch to greet Eli as quickly as possible. Kids could be so exhausting sometimes. Knowing her niece, they'd end up knee-deep in mud somewhere, battling demons and space-creatures and god knows what…she really should have changed before. She had her PJ pants, fluffy slippers and a robe on, and that's how today was going to go, apparently.

It was literally the ugliest robe in the entire universe, she'd been told on multiple occasions, and Eli noticed Pulse chuckling to himself on his porch as she opened her door and waved at him. Everyone _had_ to stop judging her on her outfit choices. No one would be able to miss her in this get-up, with her wild red hair that she hasn't brushed in days, the eye-stabbing off-color stained pink robe and the green slippers with monster googly eyes glued on them. The shrill child's voice stabbed her right in the ear, cutting off the serene bird song that she was just starting to enjoy "WoooW AuNtELI you look so beaUUUtiful TOdayyyyy!"

Eli smiled at that. She could look like she literally crawled out of a trash can and Jessie would always still treat her like she's the coolest single person in the entire universe. Perks of having nieces, clearly. Being worshipped even when you looked like shit.

"Alright, suit up Captain, we're going on an adventure," Eli said overly-cheerfully as she scooped up the girl in her arms and brought her inside so they could begin their adventure.

"Is Kira working today again?" Eli asked as the small child before her struggled to tie her space shoes. The woman made a mental note that she had to repair those later when they got back.

"Yeah mom's still working, and dad's off to work as well, and Yola's at school, you know how it goes, so I thought it was the perfect day to come to you, I'm always so happy to see you aunt Eli, you're my favorite person," Jessie trailed on and on as she completely forgot about her shoes.

Jessie needed to learn how to do that on her own though, she was already four and a half and tying shoes was a life skill everyone needed to master. Nothing in this world was given to you on a silver platter, so Eli wouldn't help the girl until she at least succeeded one knot. Jessie had a lot of things to learn still…

Kira was working too hard, Eli thought. Now that they had all this money, she didn't understand why her sister felt the need to break her back working an industrial job when Eli clearly had offered to give her money on multiple occasions. The fact of the matter was that it had been almost nine years since Eli had won, she lived nicely in the Victor's village and two years ago, Eli even managed to bring back Pulse. Things were looking up and Kira was still stressed to hell and back. In Eli's humble opinion, her sister had to take it easy.

Jessie just finished tying her shoes. Finally. Her eyes turned questioningly to Eli's for approval.

"I'm happy to see you've been successful in your tying shoes mission, Captain, let's go now before the weather turns to _shit_," Eli whispered conspiratorially and winked as Jessie giggled, clearly very amused at the swear word.

"Yeah, let's go before it goes to SHIT," Jessie agreed, beaming up at her aunt.  
Eli was just the _coolest_, wasn't she?

Kira certainly wouldn't think so, once she came for supper and Jessie started repeating the bad words Eli might accidentally have taught her but hey…they had a whole day ahead of them before that argument happened.

Sometime later, when Eli and Jessie came back to cook supper, they were covered in dirt and had yet another adventure under their belt. Jessie had decapitated all the flowers on Mrs. Shultz' lawn, so that was pretty much an all-round win. Pulse was still on his porch, and Jessie waved at him cheerfully as they passed him on the way to Eli's house. _He's really not as grumpy as he likes to think he is_, Eli thought as Pulse's entire face lit up at Jessie's attention. His eyes quickly followed the mud tracks on Eli's robe, so many questions in his eyes as he raised his eyebrows. _What the hell did you guys do?_ Eli just nodded at him. _Don't ask. _

They made cookies and alphabet pasta, and when Jessie's brother came back from school to help them out, Jessie ran up to him and led him to Eli's living room, to show off the new features she added to her space suit. That was a typical supper at Eli's house, Kira and Noa sitting at the front of the table, Jessie and Yolando sitting next to Eli, regaling her with stories of their day, interrupting each other in their haste to gain her approval and praise. More often than not, the evening ended with both children clinging to Eli's arms or clambering up on her lap and convincing Kira to let them stay over for the night. They loved Eli so much. That thought alone made Eli smile and helped her get through the worst days.

Again, Eli didn't understand why Kira didn't officially just move in with her family into the Victor's Village, since Eli had the house to herself. Her parents she understood, but Kira? She knew Kira didn't want to burden her, but for _fuck's sake_ she practically offered it every Christmas and they were already sleeping over 3 days a week because Noa's roof kept on leaking…

Eli liked Noa, but _god_ was Kira's husband kind of a dumbass sometimes. Their parents certainly thought so, especially in the beginning. Eli didn't like to brag, but she's pretty sure that her fighting for her life and almost getting eviscerated by that one bitch from District 5 during the final fight made her parents realize how important family was. They did get better, reconciling with Kira and finally accepting Noa. And to pay her back for all her good selfless deeds, good old Kira never failed to joke that Eli was single from the womb, single to the tomb. At least now they could joke about this kind of stuff again…

At some point, when Jessie had been born, Eli had asked Kira point-blank if she was afraid of her being near her kids. Her sister had actually burst into tears and they both spent the night talking, reconnecting and admitting all the things that had been kept under the surface ever since Eli came back. It had taken five years, but they finally had _that_ talk.

Eli's games had been very violent and awful, there was no denying that. Contrarily to some of her fellow victors, Eli didn't mind talking about them. She had come to terms with the things she's done because in the end it _had_ been worth it.

It was simple: it started when Eli volunteered for her older sister.

She was now something of a legend among the outer districts. She was a polarizing Victor, sure, but the Capitol loved her. She was the first female Victor and the first volunteer that had gone in, not for the glory nor the prestige. She had gone in because her older sister had been reaped and Kira was ready to get married and that's what family was for, _goddamnit_. And she had survived, hasn't she? She was whole and yeah, some days she wanted to jump off a cliff, but her family was there to make sure that didn't happen.

Both their parents had been tenured university professors at a prestigious school before the Dark Days put all their lives on hold. Their dad was a revered scientist who had a hand in building weapons during the war, their mother a major figure in writing political theories. These people were well known across the country and well liked, and Eli was still of the opinion that Kira getting reaped was a fucking mistake. It wasn't fair, and Kira was in love and just about the only happy person in all of District 3, and _what the fuck was that all about_? Eli knew that her sister would die in there, because she had witnessed the horrors of the war and still lacked the pragmatism with which Eli and her parents viewed the world. And again, Eli didn't want to brag but she was just so much smarter than Kira, so much more determined to live selfishly. She had a vision her sister lacked and that's why she survived. In a way, the Games were made for a theatrical and dramatic asshole like her.

The whole volunteering thing…that had been a first, in Panem history. After she got back, for the longest time, Eli attributed the awkwardness to Kira being scared of what she had been capable of doing to the other tributes, which caused a rift between the two sisters. They had been as thick as thieves before Eli left. Her overly-rational brain couldn't really find another explanation.

Now though, Eli knew it had nothing to do with this, and everything to do with the immeasurable debt Kira felt like she owed Eli. She didn't regret what had happened though, and she wished that Kira didn't either.

In the end, it _WAS_ worth it, no matter how much Kira beat herself up about it. Did Eli manipulate and murder five kids to get where she was? Absolutely. And she'd do it again, because it meant that Yolando and Jessie were born and got the chance to be educated and happy and full of food every day. And Eli got to roleplay as an evil alien and get to act out her own death multiple times a day, so that was fun too.

* * *

**Suhndit Laghari**  
**Victor of the 5th Hunger Games**  
**District 7**

Suhndit kind of wanted to hang herself again.

She contemplated calling Eli, but ultimately decided against it. She couldn't handle the energy that would exude from the other end of the line at this very moment. She still remembered how inspirational Eli had looked on stage, how she had played everyone and planned and schemed until no one was left. Before Eli, testosterone-pumped muscle dudes had dominated the field and Eli flipped that concept on its ass and won against all odds.

Suhndit recalled seeing Eli and being inspired by the strong feminist icon the woman would become by winning the Games. She had foolishly hoped, before the regrets and the trauma threatened to drown her, that she would be a similar kind of symbol to the other girls who struggled with their identity, with their powerlessness.

Suhndit attributed her drive in her own Games to the inspiration that Eli brought the previous year. While the District 3 Victor had engineered some drama worthy of a Capitol soap-opera with the District 5 girl which kept them both relevant until the final showdown, Suhndit knew from the moment that she stepped onto the train that she'd have to win some other way. She didn't have a guidebook, so she improvised and adapted. The arena had played out in her favor. There were trees. Lots of trees and lots of weapons. She made friends with most of the other tributes. She was also a crowd-favorite, known for her frankness, her brutal honesty, her savage come-backs and easy-going nature. It helped that she was beautiful and eighteen, and most of the Capitol was practically drooling over her.

In the arena, she had allied herself with the District 2 and District 10 girls, against all odds. All news channels broadcasting the 5th Hunger Games were mesmerized by the alliance. The girls were all strong and healthy, well-versed in combat, ready to fight off any threat that came their way.

It was funny too, because the guys that year had exuded that hyper-straight toxic masculinity that Suhndit joked they could smell from a mile away. On the sixth day, the trio actually went toe-to-toe with the District 1-2-4 all-male alliance. They emerged victorious, successfully eliminating the District 4 boy and injuring the other two who decided to run away like cowards, to nurse their wounded pride. They dominated, making their rankings shoot up sky-high and Suhndit had felt invincible.

That night, as Suhndit kept watch, the District 10 girl approached her. It had been Suhndit's first kiss. Hours later, it became her first heartbreak, as their alliance went and broke up as agreed-upon, since all three girls had earned themselves a spot in the final 8.

Sometimes it was brains and luck that won you the Games. In Suhndit's case, it was simply the fact that she fought best, ending the Games in a spectacular way by injuring and then beheading her former allies that had teamed up on her. She killed the District 10 girl last, crying over her corpse as her victory was announced.

When she landed in the Capitol, she wasn't expecting the swarming hordes of journalists, the lack of privacy, the constant groping. It was too much, she _hated_ it. On the last day before departing back to District 7, one prominent newscaster approached her for a photoshoot. She was tired, but he genuinely seemed nice and friendly, so she accepted the request. As she put her arm around his shoulders, he leaned down and told her he really enjoyed "that lesbian shit she had going on" and Suhndit almost threw up in her mouth.

She was reduced to just that. Somehow, she had played the Games on her terms and still got saddled with this kind of bullshit baggage she never asked for.

Suhndit came back and after a year, she worked up the courage to ask out her best friend Aleyah, who she married soon-after. Some people thought they moved too fast, but at this point Suhndit didn't care. Now that she was a Victor, she could afford the expensive artificial in-vitro fertilization techniques, so within the year, she got pregnant. Life was getting back to normal, and Suhndit almost moved on from the absolute horror she had lived through the year before. And then the Capitol called, Suhndit left on a business trip, and when she came back, Aleyah didn't recognize her friend-turned-partner. Suhndit started going out, partying, drinking. She refused Aleyah's attempts to discuss what happened, pushing her wife away as she tried to understand what had caused this momentous change in Suhndit's behavior. She had always been so full of life, love and determination. She became cold, abusive, a shell of her former self. When Aleyah had to rush their son to the hospital after the small boy injected potentially-lethal amounts of cocaine which Suhndit left on her nightstand, that was it.

From then on, Aleyah refused to let Suhndit see her son, and that's when shit officially went from bad to awful. The worst part was that six years later, she honestly didn't care anymore. It had stung back then, horribly, but she had had time to get over it. She didn't even remember her son's face.

She drank, she smoked, she gambled…life was a blur now. Why did she break so easily when the others seemed to be taking their victory in stride? She didn't know what had made her so brittle, but she definitely didn't think she could do another year of this bullshit. She _needed_ another victor to help her out.

* * *

**Jasmyn Abioye Desloncourt**  
**Victor of the 6th Hunger Games**  
**District 1**

The strobe lights flickered, the electronic music pounded so as to reverberate in your rib cage and shook in the depths of your core. The thumping and swaying bodies of dancers melted together in a kaleidoscope of colors. Sipping expensive cocktails, a stunning pair sat at the bar, observing the dancing crowd with curiosity. The man stroked the woman's leg absentmindedly with a hand whose fourth finger was occupied by a small band of gold. An identical one resided on the woman's hand, drowned out by a huge array of other extravagant rings and bracelets on her dark glistening skin.

"Think …for me…I'll never …break your heart…" a synthetic female voice sang as the beat sped up. Vintage was eyeing one particular dancer, a man in his twenties who was swaying his hips to the rhythm of the music. The dancer looked rich and drunk, and the Victor named Vintage was mesmerized.

Vintage kissed Jasmyn on the neck, only once, stood up and joined the festivities, drink in hand, throwing his head back and laughing boyishly as a throng of people surrounded him instantly. He was a famous Victor, probably the most beautiful and the most outrageously cruel if the reruns had any say in that matter. He was so achingly _beautiful_…

Sipping her drink, Jasmyn looked at Vintage across the bar, taking in hungrily every detail of her husband's movements. He was confident, slowly reaching up and pumping his fist in the air and the tempo changed once again. His smile was wide and carefree, and she couldn't help but love him with all her might. She knew deep down in her heart that she had lost a part of the man she fell in love with shortly before her Games…but she couldn't blame him for what he did during his own "trial by fire". After all, he did it to get back to her, he was her success story and a day didn't go by that she didn't pray in thanks for the miracle she was blessed with. No one had succeeded in bringing back a tribute the year after their own victory, not even Sujax. So what if Vintage came back a little damaged, a little unhinged? Some people lost limbs, and no one immediately jumped on their case. No, she cannot blame him for the horrors he inflicted upon the children he had competed with. After all, each Games were different, and Jasmyn would _never_ fault any of her fellow Victors for anything they've done to survive. Vintage had killed seven tributes, of which the most memorable kills had been the pair from District 2, which Athena, a younger District 2 Victor, took special care to never let Jasmyn forget. As though it had been her own hands that had carved up the faces of Athena's predecessors before ending their suffering. Vintage's skills with knives were unparalleled among the trained tributes, and so was his creativity when it came to inflicting pain. That year, the Games came with an additional warning label prior to airing footage of Vintage's systemic and indiscriminate destruction of the tributes that fell prey to his depravity. Torture and death were plentiful, and he was the executioner. It wasn't his fault though, Jasmyn had put such pressure upon him to survive.

And there he was now, surviving, thriving, having the time of his life. The life he had truly yearned for and committed the most heinous acts to finally achieve. Sanity was a small price to pay to be sipping margaritas and becoming the most desired human being of Panem, Jasmyn thought grimly. There he was, dancing like the boy she had fallen in love with as they trained together, fought each other, injured each other and improved upon one another's skills. _Whether it be with an opponent or with a partner, he's always_ _dancing_, Jasmyn realized.

Another beat change. Vintage opened his eyes and looked directly at her. She smiled at him and everything disappeared, her face lighting up with love, shoving her concerns into a dark corner of her mind. He smiled back, carefree and happy, beckoning her to join him on the dance floor. Perhaps she'd oblige a little later, but she was content looking at him for the time being, memorizing every curve and line of his beautiful cruel body that she had saved by selling her own.

* * *

**Vintage Desloncourt**  
**Victor of the 7th Hunger Games**  
**District 1**

He wanted to kiss and fuck and kill every person in the room. Most of all Jasmyn, though. She was always the person he wanted to be with the most, even at his worst.

As always, she was watching him, and he was watching her. He knew a part of her was afraid of him now. Had been afraid of him for the past six years. Some days he wanted to shake her and scream at her and make her understand that he had always been like this, he had always had this utterly _fucked up_ part of his brain that fought to be unleashed. The Games had unlocked his true potential, contrarily to her. Not that she hadn't been completely gorgeous during hers…she was a fan favorite, a puppeteer to the other tributes that truly fell head over heels to oblige. She had only killed three people, but god, Vintage smiled at the memory. She had been so _beautiful_ doing it. But she hadn't enjoyed the Games as much as he has…no, her true skill had been in mobilizing the district, seeking advice from Sujax to implement a training system to rival District 2's. Vintage still didn't know how the fuck she actually got Sujax to help, but Jasmyn was good with people like that. Vintage hadn't been an official trainee, not really, since he had only trained for the shits and giggles, and also to be with Jasmyn who at the time had been obsessed with getting out of her shithole of a home. He knew Jasmyn was getting antsy at the thought that the Academy hadn't produced an official victor yet, but he was okay with it. Who the fuck cares, in the end?

He looked at her now, sipping her cocktail, her body elegantly draped with an expensive material they both would have killed themselves for prior to their victory. She had used that body quite efficiently during her Games, he recalled, luring in stupid assholes just like him. She had allied with her district partner, the pair from District 2 and the District 9 boy that had shown promise during training. The rest was history as the Career pack lay waste to the other tributes. Her only three kills came on the very last day, when she singlehandedly slew a broad-shouldered and determined Karina from District 7, the boy from District 2 and finally the boy from District 9, who had been in love with her since day 1. She danced for about 20 minutes that day, trotting back to the aircraft that picked her up with only one scratch on her torso inflicted by the dying finalist, as a futile attempt to get back at her for her manipulative ways. It wasn't anything personal, she had said during her interview, as the crowd took her in hungrily. They all wanted her, Vintage had realized. It made sense, he wanted her too, and he didn't mind sharing. As long as she loved him the most, he was fine with pretty much anything.

She had told him once, apprehension written all over her face, that in order to secure his victory she had had to pay a rich couple a visit. He remembers childishly how she had raised her eyebrows suggestively at the words "visit" and he couldn't help but giggle like a fucking five-year old. He had then laughed and told her he couldn't care less, because it was _true_, he didn't really care what she did as long as they were together. If he didn't know better, Vintage would have thought her features flashed with something resembling hurt, before returning to normal. She let out a sigh, and smiled at him, a smile that lit up his whole world and he still remembers the kiss she planted on the top of his head before he stood up to leave, to shake off the awkwardness of their conversation.

Where Jasmyn was merciful and efficient, Vintage liked to draw things out. That's just how it worked in their relationship too. He wouldn't ever let her forget though that she had been the one who had convinced him to volunteer, to be worthy of her love, in a way. Not that he didn't appreciate the incentive, he truly and wholeheartedly believed that that had been the best thing to happen to him, but she definitely didn't. There were days when she regretted deeply for making him take the plunge, and those days he derived a perverse pleasure from antagonizing her about it, showing just enough of his crazy side, the side that had surfaced during his Games, to make her upset. And then he'd apologize, and they'd make up and all was well with the world. They were both killers, they were worth each other and that's all he cared about as the music changed. Jasmyn, as though a lithe panther on a prowl, slid up to him and they melted into each other with the sway of the music and lights.

In their case, their fates were so intertwined that it didn't matter who came first and who came second. It might as well have been him who pulled her through fire and flames to get her back, he loved her so much. They were meant to be together and there was nothing that would stop them now.

* * *

**Athena**  
**Victor of the 8th Hunger Games**  
**District 2**

A lone figure cut the still air with elegant kicks, punches, flips and fatal spear maneuvers. The gym mat was sprayed with droplets of sweat and something else that could be discerned as blood if someone bothered to take a closer look.

Athena. That had been the name Sujax had given her, once he had chosen her as the destined volunteer. That was the name she had proudly presented on stage, desperately repeated when the scorching heat threatened to make her lose her mind. The name she heard chanted back at her when she came beaming onto the interview stage to be crowned as the newest Victor of the Hunger Games.

She had wanted to make Sujax proud, she had wanted to exterminate the rebels that still roamed Panem, that prospered while her parents rolled in their graves. Contrarily to Sujax who had been old enough to make a difference in the war, turn the tides in the Capitol's favor, she had unfortunately been born a couple of years too late. As a result, she had spent the war aimlessly patrolling the bombed streets, scavenging for food, killing the other homeless children and people who posed a threated. She had been 12 when the war ended. She remembered feeling so much older.

Since then though, District 2 has done well. In the Games, they had gotten _so_ close. They had gotten closer than any other district, and yet they were still stuck with two _fucking_ victors when they deserved so many more. Athena had really tried her best to bring back a District 2 child back home, she had been so ready the year after her own victory. And then the arena collapsed within the first few minutes and buried Aella and Baxtor, her handpicked volunteers, her _friends_, under a couple of tons of rubble. She hadn't even been allowed to cry about it. Aella had been her _friend_.

They told her that because of this horrible mistake, the Gamemakers had been executed, but she knew that shit-filled snotty rat of a human being Quill Daemeon still filled the Head Gamemaker position. She would never say it out loud, but this kind of nepotism is exactly why their country had gone to shit in the first place. She had no family, no money to her name and she clawed her way to fame and fortune all the same. She wasn't exactly proud of all the things she had done, but she had secured her future fair and square. Athena would never dare breathe a word of discontent towards the President, bless him, but the Head Gamemaker fucking _killed_ Aella with his negligence and she hadn't even been allowed to mourn.

The spear zipped through the air furiously, slicing and stabbing as Athena went through the motions of the hypnotic dance of death that she had taught herself. She hadn't actually gotten the opportunity to use it within her Games, not on someone alive at least. She had practiced with the one stupid decrepit bush she had found in the wasteland that had been her arena. She proceeded to kill her the tributes she encountered in knife or close-quarters combat. It was less aesthetic, but three days in under the scorching sun and there wasn't much left out there that she cared about except for victory. She was good, she remembered that much. Sujax had told her how _good_ she was, or he wouldn't have sent her in, otherwise. She hadn't been the first trainee from District 2 to go into the Games, but she was the first fruitful attempt, the first success story and she knew deep in her heart that District 2 was unstoppable now. If the Gamemakers gave them a _chance_ and didn't topple the arena on top of them, for fuck's sake.

She felt it though, this would be their year once again. She'd make Sujax proud by bringing back a child. Contrarily to Sujax who got along well with Jasmyn and Vintage, the District 1 Victors, Athena held her distance. She knew they weren't ever going to be friends, so why bother pretending? Jasmyn, after all, had siked Vintage on the District 2 tributes. Athena was convinced that was the only reason why Sujax's golden children had fallen so early into Vintage's Games. It could have been her, if Sujax had decided to send her in that year. She would have been the one tortured beyond recognition by that piece of shit of a human being. So sue her for thinking it, but Jasmyn would always remain the fucking _bitch_ that stabbed her friends in the back and Athena just couldn't stand by that.

In Athena's games, she had allied herself with her district partner and the two District 1 trainees. They were four hunters, poised, beautiful and dangerous, ready to roam the arena and raze it to the ground until one of them remained standing. And that's exactly what they did, until the very end. Until Ronan's mind and spirits broke and they had to finish him off as a team. No hard feelings there, Athena knew it had to be done. He had been an orphan, just like her, picked up off the streets by Sujax and shaped into a boy that could crush skulls while smirking effortlessly. He had gone absolutely berserk, mad from exhaustion, heatstroke and hunger, fatally wounding Yereena. She had been a crowd favorite, Yereena…Athena always fondly remembered the ally that had supported her in the arena the most. That didn't prevent the savage fight that had ensued between Athena and Yereena's district partner Paulo. No doubt, Jasmyn had been so sure that she had another victor on her hands, that the thought of having robbed her of that put a smile on Athena's face. Athena had always been more savage, more unhinged than the district 1 tributes, and maybe that was the key to success after all. Not control, not manipulation but pure unyielding force behind an undying desire to win it all.

Athena's kill count was higher than Sujax's, but she knew she wouldn't be alive without his guidance, his love and support. She just couldn't wait to produce her own Victor and finally put to rest the fire within her, replacing it with the resolve and quiet pride she saw reflected back at her whenever she looked Sujax in the eye.

* * *

**Turner 'Momo' Monkland**  
**Victor of the 9th Hunger Games**  
**District 9**

Momo. That was the eponymous nickname the entire country had given him. It was also the only word he could say. His real name had once been Turner Monkland, but pretty much everyone had forgotten that tidbit of information. His mother remembered how confused he had looked, when the Peacekeepers pushed him towards the stage after a minute of silence and confusion. He had looked so harmless then, a six-foot giant looming over his small district partner, but looking all the more scared and absolutely utterly confused. His interview had been heartbreaking, as he repeated Momo into the microphone as the crowd laughed and ridiculed him. His mother still recalled that day once in a while, with absolute despair and derision. Her father, Momo's grandfather, had died that day too. It was just too much to handle. All she was left with was one question ricocheting in her skull as she buried her father. Why couldn't her boy die with dignity? Why didn't they afford him that one kindness?

At least she had consoled herself in the fact that her son would finally find peace, since the Careers had seemed so obsessed with hunting him down during their interview. They had likened him to a mammoth to hunt, and he didn't even understand what they _meant because he didn't have a single fucking evil bone in his body_. She prayed that his death be swift and peaceful…he already looked so perpetually scared, any time she caught a glimpse of him onscreen. During that week leading up to the Games, she had been so angry, so horrified at the way the media portrayed her son. Didn't they understand what an incredible special boy he was, who take care of animals better than anyone she'd ever seen.

To Panem, he was just Momo, a crippled 18-year old boy who ended up surviving a situation where literally all the odds were stacked up against him. He had survived due to a mistake, for which dozens of people had paid with their life.

When the suspended glass ceiling above the extravagant gigantic crystal bridge had started collapsing just as the gong rang, the tributes had been showered with sharp deadly shards. At least ten casualties were granted to the fatal injuries sustained from the rain of stalactite-like spears that careened towards the screaming and confused contestants. And then the entire structure caved in, and Momo as well as the remaining tributes were buried underneath twenty-eight thousand tons of glass, mortar and cement. Twenty-three canons rang quasi-simultaneously, and a twenty-fourth one wasn't far away when a rescue team dug up Momo.

Had it been literally any other tribute, even twelve-year old Miruna from District 6 who had cried and sobbed the entire time, perhaps the situation would have been a little bit less of a shitshow. Or maybe it was planned to end that way, a spoke in someone's wheel, a scheme that had cost so _fucking_ much. Nevermind that Momo lost an arm and had his spine broken, constrained to an existence of pain and confusion and misunderstanding. Nevermind that he wet his bed every night and his mother almost regretted that the debris hadn't crushed him alongside the other tributes from the 9th Games.

Sometimes there was really not much else to say.

* * *

**Mags Lyons**  
**Victor of the 10th Hunger Games**  
**District 4**

Perhaps, Mags' strength lay in the fact that while most of the other victors burned bright and fell out of favor just as quickly, Mags held that special slow burn that made her legendary beyond her victory. She found out early-on that the districts glorified their victors, listened to them and sought their advice. Decades into the future, she would use that to her advantage and would be seen as the paragon of wisdom, counselling dozens of lost or depressed victors who lacked a purpose in life. She would be a symbol of justice, generosity and kindness. After the announced twist of the 3rd Quarter Quell, her volunteering and subsequent death would be lamented by the people of District 4, collectively mourning the loss of their grandmother who had fought tooth and nail to distance the district from its humble and desolate beginnings.

At this point in time though, she was just a young woman with an iron resolve and grand ideas, gutting fish with her mother and sisters on the docks and waiting on her father and brothers to come back with new bounty from the sea. She had no idea what kind future life had in store for her and on a pleasant summer morning like this. She didn't particularly care, either.

Her win came right after the biggest Games flop in Panem history, after all. She was a breath of fresh air after very tense and arguably dangerous times, when the Games were an uncertainty once again. Would the public enjoy them after the past year's debacle? Mags volunteering dispelled the Gamemakers' doubts and once again elevated the Hunger Games to prime entertainment that the Capitol invested their money, time and hearts in. Mags made sure to create a reputation that would carry her through thick and thin, establishing herself as a mediator, a friendly face to anyone who needed it. She was pleasant and cordial with Capitolites, earning their respect and favor. She was loyal and kind with her fellow District citizens, who practically worshipped the ground she walked on. For all intents and purposes, her caution paired with her ability to find common ground with almost anyone guaranteed her long-lived influence in District 4 from the very beginning.

Everyone in District 4 knew Mags, and she didn't think it relevant to bring up her Games any more than necessary. That was reserved for her frequent Capitol business visits, but now was a time to do what she loved best: work at the edge of the ocean while daydreaming and humming an old folk's song as the waves crashed and churned in the distance. Running after her youngest sister and scaring her with a still-jerking fish while her other sisters laughed wasn't half-bad either.

* * *

**Pulse Bohacz**  
**Victor of the 11th Hunger Games**  
**District 3**

Mr. Roomi's basement hid many secrets, people used to joke. The biggest of them all, a boy, now eighteen years old, who you'd never guess would be the kind of guy to butcher four people within five days. A Victor.

But as it stood, on a sunny spring afternoon, this boy was hunched over an electronic device in the dark lit room, furiously unscrewing the seemingly endless bolts that held the device shut. This boy was Pulse. Believe it or not, that was his real name. Surely, he was even less impressed with it than anyone else but…c'est la vie, as they say.

So this boy, this Victor…what was he doing in an old man's basement, fixing decades-old equipment? The truth of the matter is that Mr. Roomi was the designated creepy old guy in town who was mostly left to his own devices, and Pulse appreciated the alienation from the rest of his rotten district while actually doing something useful for the older man. Fixing outdated pieces of electrical equipment was Pulse's whole get-up, after all. It was what had helped him survive the 11th Games.

Working like this was a double-edged sword…it kept the memories at bay, to an extent. But some days, they would come flooding his mind, making his hands work quicker, fueled by the anger and fear.

He remembered being almost relieved when his name was finally called at the Reaping, when he stumbled out of the fifteen-year olds' section, sweat running down his face as he struggled to push back the stereotypically large glasses further up his nose. After all, he had calculated the statistical probability of his name being pulled from the Reaping Bowl. Needless to say, the odds were not in his favour, after the unreasonable amount of tesserae he took for his siblings. The worst part is it wasn't even out of love or duty. It was because his parents were too stupid to use fucking _protection_ every time they got an itch they couldn't scratch. He just happened to be the first of their many mistakes. _Fucking finally_, a part of him wanted to shout. The other part of him was terrified and realized that he really _really_ didn't want to die.

He had worked part-time in the cooler system of one of the giant power plants in the poor sectors of the district. He was a really smart kid with piss-poor vision and an absolute disregard for personal safety. He also had a special knack for tinkering with electricity and wiring, which wasn't to be underestimated, as all of Panem had learned quite quickly. His games were the shortest to date, excluding Sujax's. They were fairly anti-climactic too, and Pulse was too smart to think that he was the Victor the Capitol would have preferred. Knowing them, he was sure they were rooting for Gharna, the District 5 girl. Well _fuck them,_ he didn't actually care what they thought, he just wanted to be left alone.

As a result of his battle with his last opponent, Pulse had sustained such extensive and debilitating injuries to his bowels that after his victory, the doctors that fixed him up were barely able to patch him back up. With half his intestines ripped to shreds by the District 5 girl's serrated sword, it wasn't surprising.

She was a nut-job, that crazy bitch, and he was glad she was dead. Because of her, he was missing about 20 inches of intestine, give or take, couldn't eat most of the things like before. He was a cripple now. A fucking _cripple_, with a colostomy bag attached to his fucking intestines, who was stuck eating shit-tasting soup for the rest of his fucking miserable life. And the funniest part was that Capitol stylists actually dared to try and make it look fucking fashionable, for fuck's sake. He was going to be shitting out of his stomach into a plastic bag for the rest of his life, and they bejeweled it like it was some _fucking joke._

He couldn't walk straight either anymore, stuck in a perpetually hunched-over state. He guessed that's why he and Mr. Roomi got along so well. That's what the wheelchair was for, but still…it depressed the shit out of him and Eli so he at least attempted to take short walks for her sake.

He liked his mentor. He thought Eli was funny and pretty and intelligent. He had quite a bit of a crush on her, and spending his days with her was the shit, compared to spending it inside the walls of his house with all his dumb siblings perpetually running around and screaming all the damn time. She was kind of the only good thing about District 3, in his opinion.

But he couldn't stand being exposed like this, to her, to the rest of the world. He wished so desperately for someone to figure out a way to make him like he was before. For a while, he had deluded himself into believing that after winning, everything would become miraculously perfect. The sad part of the matter is that even after he won, he still found he couldn't stand his family, his neighbors and his pathetic existence. And to add to that, now he had a shit-pouch attached to his belly and a nice creepy hunch, if he didn't want to feel like fainting from the pain. No miracle surgery to alleviate his suffering, it seemed. Or, a paranoid corner of his mind would constantly remind him, he must have pissed the big guys off enough for them to deny him the care he required. As far as conspiracy theories went…it wasn't the craziest idea with the whole totalitarian vibe he was getting from the government.

He had to remind himself that death was so much worse. He had done so many bad things to live, he couldn't give up now. He had stopped the hearts of three children, two of them younger than him. Pulse hadn't even had the heart to laugh, when the interviewer made a pun out of it. He had also stabbed a fourth one, but no one remembers him for that kill, which ironically is the one that fucked him up the most. And for what? Maybe it was for the talks with Eli. Maybe it was for him to finally accomplish something monumental and achieve a peak stage in his nihilistic thought process.

On Eli's porch, they had a habit of going on and on about life, death and everything in between until either of them ran out of things to say. Eli swinging on her bright blue rocking chair and him sitting next to her on his wheelchair he still used sometimes, a blanket draped over him like he was some ancient grandpa. Pulse knew Eli pitied him and didn't have the heart to tell him to fuck off, considering the fact he was her only surviving tribute-turned-Victor. But it was okay for now, especially when the sun was warming his body and his siblings' yells were far away that he could ignore them and focus instead on Eli's newest outrageous ideas.

* * *

**Triss Tsui**  
**Victor of the 12th Hunger Games**  
**District 5**

If Triss got a coin for every time someone asked him "Isn't Triss a girl's name?", he'd be even richer than he was with all of his winnings, his mother's earnings combined. Didn't stop him from winning though.

They were really close, Triss and his mom. She had really freaked out when he got reaped, that much he remembered. He was a lanky seventeen-year old at the time, with big dreams of becoming a surgeon. He had such steady hands, back then.

Either way, it was her shrieks that had snapped him out of his daze, and he had walked mechanically to the stage, all pretenses dropped. He was fucking horrified. He had always been a jokester at school, the kind of guy that had really good grades but pretended to be an absolute moron for attention. There wasn't a single joke in his repertoire that he could force out of his mouth in that moment.

At the interviews, he was charming and at training, he had managed to make some decent allies. He went into the Games with a rag-tag team of tributes who were determined to help each other survive the Bloodbath, at the very least.

Miraculously, no one from their 5-person squad died that first day. Triss was the designated healer, Ruko and Petrova from District 7 were the fighters, Suni from District 6 and Romi from District 3 were the brains behind their traps and overall plans of attack. They were all on the older side, the Careers weren't particularly impressive that year and things just…worked out for a while.

For those first few days, they were left alone, and they actually had _fun_. Triss employed what was now known as the Eli maneuver, and provided entertainment galore. He told stories, regaled his friends and the Capitol public with embarrassing anecdotes, he joked around. Everyone liked Triss, but no one had expected him to get as far as the Final 8. When Suni and Romi died from poisoning, the group finally imploded. Ruko and Petrova blamed Triss, who denied it. The audience was privy to the fact that it had been Suni's district partner, who had been following the alliance for the entirety of the Games, that planted the poison.

Unfortunately for Triss, the pair from District 7 did not have that kind of omniscient information. They cut Triss' Achille's tendons and left him to die. He didn't, dragging himself through dirt and sand to safety. Somehow, Ruko had agreed to leave him with the bare minimum supplies. Absolute moron if you asked Triss, but some shit is only explained by pure human stupidity and hormones.

Triss was found by his district partner Anova in the middle of the night, burning up from fever. His hands were no longer steady, his whole body shaking like a leaf. His district partner was a small girl, only fourteen and skinny as a reed, but she helped him and fed him, despite Triss refusing the take her into his alliance in the first place. That was the one thing he was truly sorry about, but she had survived that far so she was worth more by herself, it seemed. He knew his time was limited, as the infection in his ankles spread and took hold of the circulatory system in his feet. He had very little time. He felt the poison approaching his heart, and maybe he was hallucinating but he knew the way sepsis killed people and he knew he was getting there. He had to win this, he was so _close_. Apart from them, only the pair from 7 was left now, having eliminated all the other competition quickly and efficiently. They were the true hunters of his Games. As Triss and Anova hid, they concocted a plan to poison the District 7 tributes, his former allies and now his greatest obstacle. His mother, a highly reputable doctor in District 5, amassed the necessary funds to send Triss a tiny vial of cyanide, enough to kill three people. And just like that, the Games were over.

In his interviews, Triss liked to say that District 5 would have won regardless of the outcome of his plan. He had just been lucky enough for his district partner to screw up sufficiently to be killed off before the other two succumbed to the poison, leaving him as the sole survivor.

The tradeoff was that he lost both his legs below the knee to infection.

It was alright though. He was working on prosthetics now. He had offered to help Pulse out, whenever he finished his own mechanical legs. Pulse had refused right away, but then had contacted him again, apologizing and offering to meet up to discuss potential plans of action. That was fine.

Triss had the least amount of kills under his belt from all the victors thus far, and perhaps one of the most lasting and glaring injuries, but Triss had always been an optimist and he knew this was a challenge he could overcome. The only thing was that even now, a year later, his hands wouldn't stop shaking. His signature, previously so clean and sleek was now messy, a ghost of a tremor turning the elegant scribbles into a mess of lines. He saw the effect magnified ten-fold when people thrust their magazines, their receipts, their fake breasts or their bald heads down at him to sign. Adaptation was a part of life, he thought, and he had plenty of time to fix this too.

Now, he had all the time in the world.

* * *

Hundreds of miles separating them, these Victors went about their day in the best way they knew how. These twelve people, all different in their own right, united only in their shared spilling of blood and survival, were preparing for another child to join their ranks shortly. Some hopeful, others despairing, others not feeling anything at all anymore.

The 13th Games were coming.

* * *

_Notes: _

_Wow, this chapter took a long turn, didn't it? With 11K+ words, I am truly baffled at how much I adored writing this chapter. I really hope whoever is reading this enjoyed my take on the first 12 victors! This really sets up the scene for the kind of atmosphere the 13__th__ Games are going to play out in, and I'm hoping you liked it! _

_Summary of the Hunger Games Victors: _

_1rst: Sujax Torro, D2_

_2nd__: Casmir __Agarwal__, D11_

_3rd__: Glenn Duncan, D10_

_4th__: Eli Meisel, D3_

_5__th__: Suhndit Laghari, D7 _

_6__th__: Jasmyn Abioye Desloncourt, D1_

_7__th__: Vintage Deslongcourt, D1_

_8__th__: Athena, D2_

_9__th__: Turner 'Momo' Monkland, D9_

_10__th__: Mags Lyons, D4_

_11__th__: Pulse __Bohacz__, D3_

_12__th__: Triss __Tsui__, D5_

_Which Victor was your favorite? Which one did you hate the most? You can answer those questions by directly shooting me a PM or through review…either way, I'll love you for it!_

_Peace and love._


	4. Chapter 1: District 1 Ambrox Linden

**Ambrox Linden**

**District 1 Male, 18  
****30 Days before the Games  
Training ****Centre**

* * *

"Faster, faster, punch punch, ah ah, ah, and then spin and skewer the opponent like you mean it! One two, one TWO."

Jasmyn nods satisfactorily and almost twirls as I absolutely obliterate the piece of junk that's now splayed out in front on me like some dead asshole. Because that's what it's simulating. A dead asshole that brings me closer to home.

Jasmyn's excited for these Games, I can practically feel her vibrating with energy. She actually likes both of us, me and Imogen.

_Imogen and I_, I correct myself involuntarily. That can be so goddamn annoying, but it's true, I need to have good grammar and vocabulary and whatever other shit these posh Capitol people expect from District 1. Jasmyn stressed that a lot. She doesn't want us sounding like uneducated barbarians like some of the other districts, she wants us to be eloquent. I can be an eloquent as she needs me to be. Does it make me sound like an elitist asshole? Absolutely. Do I care? Absolutely not. Maybe Imogen cares, but I absolutely do not.

I'm…I don't know enough about Imogen. She's …prickly. But she's very talented, so it makes up for it.

"Ambrox, climbing now, quickly, get your head out of your ass!"

Even though I'm already sweating balls, I shrug it off and run across our newly refurbished Centre, getting a running head-start on the climbing wall. V8 level, hardest one there is here in our facility. As I run, my hands splay out and I grip onto the tiny protrusions. It's muscle memory at this point, as I scale the wall in 36 seconds, reaching the top protrusion with both hands and winking down at Jasmyn. I think that's part of why she likes me. I am _actually_ good, but I also know how to show that I'm having a good time. Some of the hopeful trainees are just _too_ damn serious all the time. I give her a lopsided smile just as she gives me two thumbs up.

And then my sweaty ass hands, which are dripping rivers at this point, slip.

I fall. I hit the mat hard, but I'm trained to fall, that's the first thing they beat into you. You don't go into the Games knowing you can win it. People like that usually get cut down to size pretty quickly. Vintage knew, but he's a special kind of crazy and I'm not exactly ready to associate myself with a guy like Vintage.

Jasmyn struts up to me, looking smug as ever.

"You slipped."

_Thanks for the information, I hadn't noticed_. I swallow my answer and resist rolling my eyes at the obvious. That's the problem with me, my knee-jerk reaction is always the snark. Jasmyn really had to hammer the idea that being an asshole all the time doesn't help. She's right though. I have to tone it down at least a little.

"Sorry, hands were wet."

She nods, still with that shit-eating grin on her face. Her arms are crossed, but she manages to keep tapping a perfectly manicured nail on her arm. Her eyes narrow slightly.

"You know that in the Games, there's a hypothetical scenario where you just killed a tribute, you've got blood on your hands, _literally_. And then a mutt comes chasing you and your only way out is scaling a wall or a cliff. What…you're just going to fall down and make the death of the person you just killed meaningless?"

I have a feeling she's had that spiel prepped, from the absolute overdramatic effect of it all to the head movements she clearly rehearsed to add effect to her words. That's just Jasmyn for you, she's got everything perfectly planned out from A to Z. That's how she won her Games, by figuring everyone's moves and making sure she was ahead of whatever anyone else had thought up.

I just sit up and shake my head, not falling for her trap. I'm gonna play nice today.

"I'll be careful next time. I'll be prepared."

Jasmyn nods approvingly.

"Good. You've got 30 days to be the best you can be. When the Games start, it'll all go downhill for everyone, so you gotta make sure you're declining at a slower rate."

She pats me on the shoulder and I involuntarily lean into her hand.

She notices, of course she fucking notices and smirks again.

"Say hi to Libra and Ani from me," she says as she leaves.

She always knows what's on my mind. Whether it's family, or parties or other shenanigans that make up my life. Maybe it's because she's trained and shaped us for the last 5 years, me and the other students, and knows us better than our own parents. Maybe it's because I haven't mastered the art of deception yet and she reads me like a book. Whatever it is, I need to make sure I get rid of this weakness before the Games are in full swing.

I stay behind. There's really no point to getting home this early, especially if I can get a few more hours' worth of training. A tiny annoying voice in my head reminds me I promised to pass by the pharmacy for Ani's medication, but I suppress it. In a month, I won't be here to do it, so my parents might as well get used to this. Either I'll be back, I'll be a Victor and I won't have to be their stupid medication bus-boy, or I'll be dead and they'll have one less thing to worry about.

In the back of my brain, I know I'm being too harsh on them, on my brother Libra, on my sister Ani. I know they've got their own shit to deal with. With the Games only a month away, I can't shake the feeling that they're all slowing me down. I know they're _not_, practically-speaking, but it sometimes feels like if they were a bit more concerned with how I was doing, maybe my mindset would be different, and I wouldn't be so high-strung or stressed out. Maybe Jasmyn would finally stop grilling me with unnecessary questions I already know the answer to, would stop tip-toeing around the obvious and pretending like I'm not the chosen volunteer. Would focus all her efforts on Imogen and Ambrox, the best District 1 has to offer this year. We are the best, after all, we just need to tough it out for the next thirty days and then we're off.

Either way, the few times my parents actually pretend to be concerned is when I remark that my position isn't fully locked in yet, regardless of what Jasmyn officially declared. That's when my dad unloads the pile of crap he considers a pep-talk, telling me I just have to work harder in order to prove to them once and for all that I'm the one the district is sending in. He doesn't understand how even though Jasmyn said it's happening, _we're locked in_, it doesn't mean I can let my guard down completely. Especially in the last few months, when the number of contenders has winnowed down to a minimum before Jasmyn announced Imogen and myself as the final candidates. I've just been unable to properly let go of the feeling that something will go wrong at the very last possible second. Again, that annoying voice keeps nagging me that Jasmyn's only been out for seven years and that isn't enough time to perfect the whole "training and choosing a volunteer" process. Maybe she doesn't know any better and I'm just a lab rat, a Guiney pig.

She does probably know better, and this _is_ the way to prepare the volunteers. While ruminating on this as I complete my third set of pull ups, I realize how utterly stupid my concerns are. They don't even make sense. Jasmyn is the only Victor to have brought back another Victor the year right after. If anyone knows what the hell they were doing, it's Jasmyn, and I had to stop being a spazzing piece of shit about it. I trust Jasmyn, more than most people at least, so I have to let my perceived complaints about her methods slide.

After twenty laps around the center, and a few bouts with the jump rope, I decide to finish the day off with some weights. It's already 6PM and I'm drenched. I've been training harder than ever before and it's not like Jasmyn's not happy. On the contrary. She's just…giddy? That's an admittedly weird word to use when describing Jasmyn but she does get like that sometimes, when the Games are particularly close and she likes the tributes she's sending in. It happened two years ago, with Dustin and Rulia. They still died, but they were formidable.

I dust off my hands that are full of chalk and head for the lockers.

No one is here, as per usual for this time of day.

I peel off my shirt that is permeated with sweat and grime, and start focusing on my locker combination. And the someone bangs their duffel bag right by my face and I don't flinch because _fuck_, I'm the designated volunteer, but I mentally file away a come-back revenge jump scare for this asshole. It's Oulondo. Classic.

"Hey man, what's up?"

Oulondo's an okay guy, don't get me wrong. He was also the runner-up for the designated volunteer spot, when it was still up for grabs, so the man kind of worries me. _No, he doesn't worry me_, I correct myself, _he's still competition up until the moment you're on that stage, saying your name as the designated volunteer, so better be safe than sorry_.

Oulondo took the whole thing in stride too, didn't scream or cry or try to kill me like some of the other hopefuls. Maybe he's just a really nice and talented guy who doesn't have his head in the game, but the fact that he's still out in the Center so late makes me a little weary. I make a quick inventory of all the objects around me that I can use to protect myself, so quickly Oulondo doesn't notice.

I put on my least scrutinizing most relaxed-how-are-you-doing-let's-have-a-locker-conversation facial expression ever.

"Not much, just training, you know how it is. How are you?"

Oulondo smiles, stretching.

"Same. I actually stayed back because I thought hey, we're having a party in Diamond's place and we wanted to invite you."

A party sounds fun. Especially after a long day like this. Especially as an excuse not to come home to the same dumb questions and the same half-assed signs of affections which are contingent on me regaling my parents of my success in training.

"Yeah sure! I'll quickly go shower and I'll be there!" I say enthusiastically, smiling back at Oulondo. He waves at me, as he exits the room.

"See you there, dude!"

I am left alone in the humid locker room, for real this time. Parties are…they're alright. Once in a while, they're a great way to unwind, to meet new people and forget the stresses that come with training. I still remember the day when Jasmyn took me into her office and told me that coming into training with a hangover every three days was unacceptable. I had just turned sixteen then, and had just discovered the whole prospect of partying and underage drinking. I remember talking back at Jasmyn, retorting that even with a hangover I was still the best trainee. She just smiled at that and made me run twenty extra laps without possibility of hydrating, with my head pounding behind my eyes. I was a snarky bastard back then.

Nowadays, I'd say I've definitely cooled down. I still go to parties…I just don't particularly like the whole blaring music, the kissing and the groping, the fact that I have to lower my guard in front of people that would potentially gut me for the privilege of being District 1's volunteer this year.

And I mean, kissing's fun, it's alright, but who the fuck implemented the idea that you have to close your eyes when you kiss someone? _That's_ weird. When we got old enough to discuss girls and sex, we literally had a whole debate about kissing, Libra and I. Again, I'm pretty sure it plays into the whole "I am paranoid around people that could potentially harm me" thing, but it all boils down to the fact that there's 30 days left until the Games, and I'm not wasting this opportunity just to close my eyes while making out, and getting shanked for my troubles.

I change quickly, fix my hair and walk leisurely to Diamond's. I hesitate when I turn on my street. Maybe…

And then I pick up the pace, because _fuck it_, I am as much of a breadwinner in this family as anyone, what with the training stipend and the added bonus once I go into the Games. I petulantly remind myself that my parents don't bother to spend their time of day on me, so Libra can take care of things the _one_ night I'm gone. Libra, my little brother, who flunked out of training at sixteen just a few months ago. Libra, the nicest kid in all of District 1. It's the nice kids who get the medication for their sick sisters though, especially since they don't have to worry about all the injury, murder and death that is coming for me in less than a month's time.

A few more minutes and I am at Diamond's place, a spacious and modern house, rebuilt since the war. I take a deep breath and open the door. The warmth and smell of booze is what hits me first. And then I'm dragged in by a pair of friends from training and the explosion of sounds hits me like a wave. Tamara, a runner-up for the girls this year who was beaten by Imogen in the final decision veto-ed by Jasmyn, drunkenly raves about something unintelligible. Suffice to say she didn't take that decision kindly. I spot Oulondo dancing, winking and smiling at me as he spots me. I mechanically smile back, as I head for the kitchen and to help myself to a drink.

There's one month left before the Games and I find myself unable to really relax. So, I just hang back, drink and observe the rest of my peers get drunk and high, with the music swelling and the smoke filling up the large house with a cloud-like fog. I realize I've never felt more alone in my life.

Tamara literally falls off the chair she was standing on, getting back up and continuing to rage about Imogen. Her face is flushed and her eyes are unfocused, but her knuckles are white from the way she grips the back of chair as she stands up, all rage. Her dark brown eyes are clouded and angry. Pools of rage and grief and jealousy, unrestrained now, as the alcohol takes its effect on her body.

"McCarthy, take it easy on the drinks," I yell at her just as she gives me the finger. I notice now that Imogen isn't at the party.

Where I was cocky and naturally talented at weapons and most of the other physical aspects of training, Imogen has always been a machine at working, perfecting and refining her technique. She is an obvious type of dangerous and I know Jasmyn had had her sights on the girl ever since she entered training. Even at thirteen, I remember Imogen being as bloodthirsty as they come. I am pretty sure that the only thing keeping Imogen in check was her best friend Cira. Cira was good too, don't get me wrong. Cira had actually managed to earn herself a spot in the top 5 female contenders for the coveted volunteer spot. She wasn't made for the Games though…Cira is a nice person at heart, just like Libra is. Imogen on the other hand…even I couldn't deny how lethal Imogen was with a spear. She's also kind of an asshole, but once again, I respect that. She isn't an asshole with Cira, after all. Ever since I can remember, they were thick as thieves, mostly keeping to themselves but training and improving upon each other. Imogen always protected Cira, even though Cira wasn't to be underestimated on her own either. Cira's strengths lay in the fact that she was so much more reserved, so much more cunning whereas Imogen wore her heart on her sleeve. Where Cira was much more cautious, Imogen plunged headfirst into conflict and almost always emerged victorious. I know she prefers ranged weapons, but I am pretty sure she could stand her ground with anything that is even remotely considered a weapon. She is a damn great competitor and I would be lying if I said I wasn't proud to be going into the Games with such a competent person to guard my back, at least until the Final 8.

"Looking thoughtful today, Mr. Sunshine," Oulondo slurs as he approaches the place where I sit, observing the party and sipping my third drink.

I bite back an annoyed sigh.

"A little out of it, to be honest. The music doesn't agree with me," I reply nonchalantly as he sits on the armrest of the chair I'm sitting in and leans forward.

"_The music doesn't agree with me_," he mimics, and I bite back a laugh.

"Dance with me?" he asks then and maybe it's the loneliness or it's the alcohol finally kicking in, but I accept.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, punctuated by Tamara's angry tirade about Imogen, Venuto almost falling out of a window and his boyfriend Carlos pulling him back in while screaming profanities and Oulondo smiling at me in a way that I almost buy as being sincere.

* * *

I wake up with the sun shining directly into my eyeball. I squint. Shit. If the sun is up, it means I'm late. No Oulondo in sight. Or anyone else of importance for that matter. I mentally berate myself for letting my guard down like this. Imogen made the right call to skip that party, I think begrudgingly as I check the time.

I won't have time to change…so be it. I quickly ruffle my hair, so that it looks at least half-presentable and sprint all the way to the Center. The halls are silent, with all the trainees already in the center, listening to Jasmyn or observing a wrestling match.

I open the door and come into the gymnasium just as Tamara McCarthy plunges the sharp end of the spear directly into Imogen's throat. The whole room erupts into a cacophony of noise.

* * *

_DUN DUN DUN!_

_Notes: I hope you enjoyed your first look at the District 1 male tribute! Let me know if you liked this introduction. Reviews are always very welcome and very appreciated, since the Games are being planned so any criticism or remark will be definitely useful in ensuring that I write the best possible story.  
Who do you think will end up being the District 1 female volunteer? Do you like Ambrox and how do you think he'll fare in the Games? _

_Peace and love. _


	5. Chapter 2: District 1 Cira Dupont

**Cira Dupont**

**District 1 Female, 18  
****29 Days before the Games  
Training ****Centre**

* * *

I hear a pained dog whine just as Imogen and I finish wrapping up our picnic blanket and packing up the remains of our early breakfast.

"Is it Cotty?" Imogen asks, concern tainting her voice. I would be lying if I didn't feel a little bit of pride because she literally would never use that kind of tone with anyone but me. Because she's my best friend and I'm the only one privy to how awesome she really is. I shake myself out of this spiral of thought, because we've got bigger problems on our hands. It's definitely my baby dog.

"Yeah it sounds like Cotty," I answer, panic constricting my throat as I throw my book aside and start sprinting towards the sound.

Imogen catches up easily. Her legs are longer than mine, so she overtakes me almost as quickly, nodding back to me. We have this silent agreement. She can charge the problem headfirst and I'll mediate the consequences.

As I round the corner, I see Imogen, her fists curled at her sides. I see my dog Cotty. I see Tamara, a girl from training, I then witness her kick Cotty across the yard, my poor baby dog hitting the side of the shack with a pitiful yelp. Cotty doesn't get up, and I stifle a scream.

"Leave the dog alone," Imogen growls, as Tamara swings a wooden stick while pacing back and forth, a stupid smirk never leaving her features. As though Imogen would be afraid of a fucking stick.

"Or what, you'll fight me? I doubt even the great _Imogen_," Tamara spits out the name as though it's poison, "can fight off five people at once."

In my desire to get to Cotty, I didn't see the other three girls and one tall boy standing at the edge of the shack, eyeing us menacingly.

"Try me, you stupid ugly cow," Imogen spits back, adjusting her fighting stance.

"Stop it guys, there's no need to fight, just let my dog go please. Cotty didn't do anything wrong," I plead, realizing shit will hit the fan and we probably won't end up winning this fight. As I said before, Imogen's the fighter, I'm the mediator and I know when a battle is a lost cause.

"Or what," Tamara singsongs, approaching Cotty.

"Please stop Tamara, I really _really_ am asking you," I practically beg her. For a second it looks like she's considering it. And then she whacks my tiny little dog with her stick.

Imogen practically tackles her to the ground, as Tamara's minions descend upon my friend. Practically forgotten, I run up to Cotty. My baby is wheezing. The stupid bitch probably shattered his ribs.

I want to kill her. We're outnumbered though, we can't do anything, even though Imogen is the strongest out of all of them by far, and I could probably stand my ground as well.

I bury my anger deep down inside and scream from the top of my lungs. "STOP." Imogen punches the boy, Venuto, once again in the throat for good measure and stands up. They're all covered in dust and tiny pebbles from the road. Tamara's practically screaming for blood.

"Attacking my dog won't change the fact that Imogen's the selected volunteer and if you want to provoke us, you'll have to do it some other way. If you don't leave right now, I will call the Peacekeepers on you," I add shakily. I'm sure Tamara takes pleasure in the way my voice trembles, attributing it to the fear she imagines I feel. My voice shakes from anger.

"I will shatter your teeth if you come near us again," Imogen warns, her voice low and dangerous. I know she can't go ahead and hurt Tamara for real, since Tamara is the runner-up volunteer. If anything would happen to Imogen, Tamara is the one going into the Games, and sabotaging her would be a move that Jasmyn would definitely frown upon. It would maybe even be enough to disqualify Imogen, for acting upon impulse like that. That's probably why Tamara's been itching to hurt us, to get some sort of significant retaliation. Hurting my dog just escalated the conflict ten-fold, but we're not idiots.

Imogen watches warily as the five people limp away, Tamara throwing daggers at us, out of her big blue eyes.

"I could have killed them, you know," my friend says conversationally, as we both kneel next to Cotty. The dog's getting old but I still love him more than anything in the world. He's been my only friend for a really long time, and I adopted him when I was 5, right after the war. Cotty's a chiwawa, probably escaped some rich household in the Capitol during the bombing, and wandered a lot before being found by me. I nursed him back to health and I got so attached to him that I convinced my parents to keep him. He's been with me ever since, through thick and thin. He was there for me even before Imogen.

She roughly palpates his ribs, causing him to whimper.  
"They're bruised but he's fine," she concludes, as I push her hands away. She can be so rough sometimes, but I know she means well. To me and Cotty, at least.

I'm not delusional, I know Imogen isn't a good person, strictly speaking. She's bloodthirsty and actually derives pleasure from hurting people. Both her parents are dead though, and mine are both alive so I guess that tells you something about nurture being important in the whole "making an individual a balanced member of society" situation. I love Imogen fiercely. She's been with me throughout the years, and she's always protected me. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around, nor the most interesting and somehow, she still stayed all this time. And I admire her…she wants to go into the Games, for the violence and the blood, yes, but also for the glory of having saved someone like me, someone who wouldn't be able to murder and survive without shedding all of their humanity.

I pick up Cotty, and bring him close to my chest. He nuzzles closer, his little nose wiggling towards me.

"I'll see you at training Cira, I gotta go. I might have to do damage control, since only Satan knows what kind of shit Tamara is going to tell Jasmyn," Imogen says quietly. She brings her arms out for a hug, and we linger there, Cotty snuggly squished between the two of us.

"Sounds good 'Gen, I'll hang out here for a little bit longer, and bring Cotty home. Even though his bones aren't broken, I might need to do something for this," I say, as I remark a little bit of blood under his fur.

"See you Cira."

I wave at my best friend as she sprints away. She's always running, Imogen. It's like she's made for this training, for this kind of life. I bring Cotty back to where we sat, and slowly pack up our stuff.

After I drop off Cotty at my house, I take the long path to the training Center. I'm in no hurry. We used to show up there as early as possible, when Imogen still hadn't secured her spot as the designated volunteer. Now that it was only a month ago, she actually told me she was trying to avoid the place as much as possible, because of the potential for conflict to arise. Clearly, conflict found us wherever we were, but if it helped her, I didn't particularly care. She was the training fanatic, not me.

I walk up to the Center, smiling at the younger kids enjoying the weather. Most of them, like me, will probably end up in the Peacekeeping force. Or somewhere else. I can't claim that at the ripe age of 18, I know exactly what life has in store for me. In that regard, I'm quite envious of Imogen. She's so sure of herself, so confident… and she knows exactly where she's headed. As though I'm her complete opposite, I've always struggled with certainty and commitment. People's opinion mattered too much to me, I took things too personally, she used to tell me. When we were thirteen, that's how we became friends…we both enrolled in training, she took a special liking to me, and kept insulting me in the most creative ways until I broke down in tears and finally admitted how hurt I was by what she said. And then she actually felt bad and basically adopted me and we've been inseparable ever since. The strongest friendships arise from the weirdest experiences, really. I thought she was a heartless asshole, and she thought I was a spineless people-pleaser, and eventually we met somewhere in the middle. As the sun warms my face, I realize I will miss her like crazy when she leaves. It's hard to believe that all our hard work, all the hours lifting weights and imagining hypothetical scenarios are leading up to this momentous moment in her life. I actually can't quite believe that she'll be going into the Games so soon. I'm not delusional enough to think that her death is impossible, but I am confident that she'll do her best, and her best has always been enough. I'll just have to really hope she'll come back. By all means, she's the best District 1 has to offer, and I'm glad she's going in with Ambrox. He's a really dedicated guy, too, just like Imogen. He's a little too obsessed with training, if you ask me personally. It's almost as if he lives in the gymnasium, but you know what, live and let live is a motto I adhere to. He's not a full-blown psychopath either so we know he won't be one of those tributes to lose his shit early in the Games. From what I've heard from Imogen, it seems that she trusts him, at least marginally.

When I come into the gymnasium, I know already something is wrong. Imogen is arguing loudly with another trainee, the guy that was with Tamara this morning. Most suspicious of all, I see Tamara lurking in the background, a spear in hand.

At first, my paranoid brain plays out a scenario that isn't even possible. Not here anyways.

And then it happens in real time, as the guy grabs Imogen by the face, and as she struggles away from him, confusion and annoyance marring her features, Tamara sprints up behind her and lacerates the left side of her throat with the spear, lightning quick. It all happens too fucking fast to even comprehend.

The blood starts spilling everywhere. And Imogen's just standing there, a hand on her throat, trying to stem the blood escaping her severed carotid artery.

Ambrox, our male volunteer who just came in, looks on wearily at the situation. The door slams behind him. As silent tears roll down my cheeks, I step forward. My breath catches in my throat as my brain struggles to come to terms with what the fuck just happened.

"What the fuck did you do," I demand, my voice eerily calm. It almost sounds squeaky, like a petulant kid inquiring about a damaged toy they know they'll never get back. My heart feels like it's going to fucking explode. McCarthy smirks as my friend, my only friend in the whole fucking world, chokes on her blood. Jasmyn is standing there, looking almost-shell shocked. She recovers quickly, though, calling in the medic team with a voice that could almost be described as frantic. I can't hear any of it. It feels like I'm underwater.

I can't move properly. It feels like an ocean has swallowed me whole, like my body is a meat suit I can't shrug off, and it's confining me, choking me as my grief tries to escape. I can't fucking move and my best friend is _dying_. Imogen's not struggling anymore, her throat leaking red everywhere on the mat.

The only thing my brain can muster is the fact that they weren't even supposed to be fighting, this isn't the fighting mat, how the fuck did McCarthy get her hands on the spear so quickly?

I step forward mechanically. Tears are still leaking down my face and I can't help it.  
"WHAT the fuck did you do?" I ask more loudly, approaching the girl who just killed Imogen.  
She has the gall to openly laugh. She's laughing, she's _breathing_ and my friend is dead. My friend who deserved the fucking world. My friend who was going into the Games in less than a month.

"The bitch got what she deserved," Tamara drawls and circles me like the predator that she is as I hug myself, my long nails scrapping at my arms spasmodically, just to feel anything else but the grief that is threatening to overwhelm me. I can't. I fucking can't.

"I killed her, and I'm going to kill anyone who stands in my way," Tamara continues, the display of sudden power doing wonders to her adrenaline rush, no doubt. She'd have never defeated Imogen in hand-to-hand combat. Imogen was too good for that, too smart and too powerful. The only way she could win is through fucking cowardly surprise. The tears keep on coming as I try my best to keep it together. Maybe Imogen can still be saved…

At the back of my mind, I know that was a lethal shot.

Tamara keeps waving that stupid fucking spear around, blood droplets splattering around her, even taking a little bow as her friends actually have the gall to applaud weakly. Jasmyn looks less than impressed as the medic team arrives and starts taking a pulse on what-had-been-Imogen.

And then something happens. There's movement behind us. I see one of the guys, Oulondo, lunge awkwardly towards Ambrox. While Tamara didn't miss her shot, Oulondo's lack of certainty is his downfall. It almost looks like Ambrox is ready for the betrayal too, expertly snapping the short knife out of Oulondo's hand with a powerful hit, gripping his forearm and shattering his radius and ulna with one powerful twist. It almost looks like Ambrox didn't move, but one second he's standing there looking directly at Imogen bleeding out, and the next Oulondo screams, a high-pitched and pained sound, falling to the ground. Ambrox hovers over him, his face wearing a blank expression. He then steps on Oulondo's hand, crushing the fingers underneath it with an audible crack. Ambrox looks at Jasmyn. Even in my dazed state, I know what their exchange means. We don't tolerate fucking traitors that try to capitalize on other people's skills here. Imogen deserved a chance to retaliate. And in that moment, I hate Tamara more than I've ever hated anything in the entire world.

Tamara clearly still doesn't get it. She dispassionately looks away from Oulondo, right at me.

"Not everyone's as successful as I was but mark my words Dupont, I promised I'd kill Imogen the day she snatched my spot, and I promise I'll kill your dog if you ever try anything…"

She keeps going and going. I see Jasmyn cross her toned arms and look at me. If this wasn't happening, if it wasn't Imogen lying on the ground right now, the two of us would be laughing, criticizing how Tamara got caught monologuing, like some third-class villain from a kid's film. But she just had to bring my dog, my Cotty, into this.

Something snaps inside me. Enough is enough.

I may not have been the best in training, preferring books and art and lengthy discussions to the violence this center harbored. But people easily forget that I am as highly trained as the rest of them.

So it surprises everyone and no one at the same time, when I take three quick steps, reach forward with blinding speed and rip Tamara's right eyeball out of her head.

Blood spurts all over my hand as I jump back, in order to avoid the spear Tamara is still holding clutched in her hand. A moment of silence.

And then Tamara starts screeching and all hell breaks loose.

She stumbles down on her knees, cradling her face as the blood spills from between her fingers. The spear clatters to the floor, as she screams profanities. Jasmyn's expression shifts slightly. If I could focus on anything but the rage consuming me, she'd almost look pissed off.

Tamara lunges at me, but her balance is off, and so is her vision. I took her eye, and now, I think grimly, _I'm going to take her fucking life for what she did_. I sidestep quickly, the moves almost a dance. She's still screaming as I grab her hair and bang her head once, twice, three times into the mat. Her nose is definitely broken now, a mess of cartilage and flesh. She tries to reach backward, get me with the spear she somehow got a hold of, but I flip her over. I hook both my thumbs into her eyes, and push down hard. She screams and rips at my hair, but I feel no pain now. I imagine almost that I am Imogen reincarnated, exacting revenge. Cira would never condone this kind of violence.

I realize halfway through the fight that I'm still crying, technically. My eyes are leaking tears but my face is stone. I let go of Tamara's face, and stand up straight, as I survey the crowd, almost challenging anyone to stop me from doing what I'm about to do. I step on her eyeball, the one lying on the mat, and honest to god, the entire room flinches away.

I'm not sure whether I crushed her other eye or not, but either way the stupid bitch finally faints, her screaming interrupted. I immediately take a few steps back, right myself and my shirt, passing a hand through my hair. I am covered in blood, I realize.

Jasmyn approaches me and touches my shoulder.

"Well…I guess we don't have to wrack our brains to know who our female volunteer is going to be."

* * *

_Notes: Updating twice in two days, WHO DIS? Next update might not come as quickly, but I will try my best to keep it at 1-2 chapters per week, so that we get through all the introduction chapters fairly quickly._

_Well, this was a lot more gruesome than I had initially intended (cricket sounds) _

_WELCOME TO MY GAMES KIDDOS, YOU'RE IN FOR A FRICKFRACKING RIDE. Did you enjoy Cira's John Wick-esque moment of revenge? Are you happy Tamara got what she had coming? _

_Guess who totally goofed and thought she was being clever by asking who the D1F tribute was when it's literally on her profile? THIS GAL. Anyways, I'm hoping whoever is reading is enjoying my take on these characters. Reviews are my drug, please pretty please send one my way, it'll make my day __ Special thanks to those who already did. _

_Peace and love. _


	6. Chapter 3: District 2 Luther Szeto

**Luther Szeto**

**District 2 Male, 18  
****15 Days before the Games  
****Outskirts of District 2**

* * *

"Aunt Roxanne! I'm going out with Alice, I'll be back later," I yell as I grab a sandwich off the counter.

My aunt is somewhere at the back of the house, rummaging through our stuff no doubt, trying to keep the place in order. In vain, if you ask me. My cousin and I cause quite the ruckus and while we certainly try to help out, my aunt gets exasperated more often than not.

"Aunt Roxanne!" I repeat myself.

She comes stumbling out into our tiny kitchen, three heavy-looking boxes in her arms. I instinctively drop my sandwich back on the counter and rush to help her.

Aunt Roxanne is a tiny black-haired woman, with a sharp look in her dark eyes, skewering me on the spot. I know for a fact that she could slap me to hell and back if I did so much as contradict whatever she said. I take two of the three boxes from her and set them on our decrepit counter.

"What do you want?" she asks, huffing as she sets the last box down.

"I was just saying that I'm going out with Alice to watch the stars, I'll be back late," I say slowly, articulating every word, "If that's okay with you."

"Don't go getting into trouble now," she grumbles.

"I won't, I promise," I say, chuckling slightly.

I know she worries about me quite a bit. Our entire family was pretty much obliterated by the war, and she took it pretty poorly. I mean who wouldn't, right? I was barely five when it happened so I don't remember a ton, but my aunt remembers everything.

Her sister, my mother… she died horribly.

Aunt Roxanne's husband Winto died in the war too, after all. Anytime we sit together in our little living room, Aunt Roxanne recounts the day where Winto, Fred and Rula, that's my dad and mom's names respectively, left the house and never came back. They were killed in action, by the rebels.

"In the end, I guess our side did win," aunt Roxanne always concludes heavily, when finishing that particular story.

"At what cost," I used to mutter but I know that upset her quite a bit, so I stopped. I know she cried a lot, those months after my mom's, my dad's and my uncle's deaths. It _wasn't_ easy, and it's not fair to poke such a sensitive subject with a stick.

Aunt Roxanne actually likes to talk about that night, weirdly enough. It's almost like it's a fond memory she keeps chasing, amidst the absolute shit-show her life descended into afterwards. She romanticizes it quite a bit too, something I don't necessarily agree with but oh well. Before I started training, she struggled to keep the household running, working herself bare to keep me and my cousin Lydia fed and clothed. Now we had a bit of money coming in in the shape of my stipend. That isn't half-bad.

For me, the death I mourn the most is that of my older brother Daniel. He was the one I looked up to, my fondest memories from before the war being of us playing and thinking up wild scenarios and plots together. It's even worse for his death, because while my parents and my uncle died protecting their values, he was… collateral damage. Both my parents were soldiers and I was proud of them, in a way. Angry for leaving us, but proud. When they died, the war was in full swing, so we didn't even get a call. We just heard on our shitty radio that their battalion had been bombed into oblivion and that was it. I remember asking aunt Roxanne what that _meant_, and she had pursed her lips then, and hugged my cousin Lydia, me and Daniel hard. We got separated the day after, because the rebels started bombing the shit out of civilians too, clearly getting desperate.

I remember that day clearly. I was covered in soot and grime, my ears hurt and I didn't understand what was going on. People were dying, but I thought it was kind of a game. By then, I still didn't understand my parents were dead. I ran into a building and hid there, with another girl who I saw on the street. She was crying a lot, and I remember telling her we just had to play and we'd win, which made her sob harder.

I wasn't particularly scared, but I guess I should have been. Our building was safe and so was aunt Roxanne's. She had taken Lydia and ran for her life, she told me when we found each other later. She thought me and my brother were dead, and she beat herself up about it so much, all these years later, for not looking for us longer. I didn't blame her though…she was only 24 years old back then, scared out of her mind, with one child of her own and saddled overnight with the responsibility of caring for her sister's kids. She also would have died, if she hadn't run. Turns out she was half-right about us being killed, because my brother _was_ crushed by collapsing debris that night. I think that's why she's so conflicted, about me leaving, about me training, about me risking it all in the Hunger Games.

The building we were hiding in, the nameless girl and me, it had a little television. Somehow, three quarters of the district lost power following the attacks, but that house somehow didn't. We distracted ourselves by watching the news, which was the only thing on anyways. The girl cried even harder when they showed one street bursting into flames after a particularly-accurate jet-fighter dropped liquid fire on it.

I still remember her repeating over and over "that's my street, that's my street" as her tears created soot-rivulets down her cheeks. She told me her little brother and parents died in that attack, and she barely escaped. I didn't know it at the time, but I watched my brother's death on television too. Towards the end of the day, the attacks weakened. I told the girl we'd be out soon, everything would be okay.

Suddenly, a helicopter shot revealed the outskirts of District 2, the fence visible already. They had only built it a few years prior to my birth, my aunt told me. To keep intruders out. To keep our district safe and protected. It had looked pristine on television, compared to the rest of the landscape. Most of the buildings were small, dilapidated, craters carved out in the ground. One building stood out however, and it would forever be etched in my memory.

It was an apartment complex, like any other. It went down, floor by floor, and I almost found it amusing the way it fell like a house of cards. My brother was in that building, I found out later, hiding out just as I was. He was way smarter than I was, he was older too, and he probably understood what was going on. He was only nine at the time, younger than when I picked up my first weapon and went ham on a Styrofoam dummy. Younger than when Athena handed me my first knife and told me to kill a squirrel, to prove that I had it in me. He just had shittier luck than I did.

Either way, as upsetting as this all sounds, I'm over it. Almost everyone alive today had something shitty happen to them during the Dark Days. I'm taking this whole war situation in stride. Now there's the Hunger Games and that's pretty much all I can do at this point, considering I have zero discipline, don't give a shit enough to join the Peacekeeping force and have no other discernable talents apart from training. That's alright, I made peace with that and I'm hoping everyone else will too. I know for a fact that when I told aunt Roxanne I'd be volunteering, she told me she was very proud. I also overheard her crying at night, but I'd never tell her that. She'd slap me in the head if I did.

Athena told me I'd be great, if I stopped my bullshit, so I know the endeavor isn't hopeless. I know aunt Roxanne respects Athena tremendously, for her efforts to purge the district of rebels and her vocal dislike of dissidence. I can't particularly say I'm of the same opinion, because I mean…my parents fucking _died_ for the Capitol. My brother _died_. My uncle _died_. The three of us ended up shit's creek without a paddle, because of their stupid war. So, forgive me if I am not as stocked about the Capitol's greatness as Athena seems to be. In other words, I can't say I'm a staunch Capitol supporter, but I also can't _not_ be one, if that makes any sense? I don't really see a point to it, but my parents died for the cause, so it has to mean something. Even if I don't get it. Even if I don't think it's as black and white as people like aunt Roxanne make it out to be.

"Did you have an aneurysm or something?" aunt Roxanne asks me, none too sharply. I snap out of my unexpected detour through memory lane, coming back to reality. I almost want to ask her what's an aneurysm but decide against it. She was a medic, back in the day, and she could launch herself into a full tirade about what an aneurysm is and frankly I don't really care. I'm not good at that stuff anyways.

Her daughter Lydia, my cousin, is the smart one. She's really brilliant. I'm just really fast, lethal, good with weapons and not-dying.

"You ain't the sharpest tool in the shed," my aunt says whenever I do something dumb, and I don't take it personally because it's true, I'm not. Athena says I make up for it with other stuff. That's fine by me.

"Okay I'm leaving," I announce and grab the sandwich again.

"Love you, aunt Roxanne!" I call out just as I step out the door.

"Love you too Luther, come back in one piece please," she yells after me.

My life is all about this now. Getting yelled at affectionately by aunt Roxanne. Getting yelled at in frustration by Lydia, for having eaten her food. Getting yelled at for some bullshit or another by Athena at training for like eighteen hours in a row.

I run as fast as I can as the sun sets over the horizon. I don't want to miss it, and I know Alice will be waiting for me. Might even get yelled at by Alice, if I'm too late. As I said, getting yelled at and hitting things pretty much sums up my life and is a specialty of mine.

I see Alice just as I speed through a crossing and hit the small tree line that marks the boundary of the clearing we always meet at.

I bump her in the arm and tackle her, flipping us over. We crash into the tall grass, me laughing, her cursing. Alice is my best friend. We've tried the whole dating thing when we were a bit younger, but that's when we discovered she preferred girls and I'm just generally not all that big on relationships. Still, I'd say she's the person I am most comfortable with.

The sun turns a deep red color and we both look in wonder. We try to do this every day that I am not bogged down by training. Most of the time, our friends join us. Tonight though, we're alone. There's been quite the drama at the Center, for the volunteering positions.

I straight-up told Athena I'd be volunteering no matter the outcome. I've told her this repeatedly over the years actually, and the first time she actually broke my clavicle for insubordination. She's mellowed down a little bit, and I think she realized just how good and malleable I _really_ was, so she stopped breaking my bones, thankfully. The fact is though, she's undecided who she's sending in. I know exactly who she's sending in, but she isn't. It's not _my_ problem and she'll have to deal with it, because she's the one who told me I was good enough in the first place.

"Look at it. It's particularly beautiful tonight," Alice remarks, childlike wonder tinting her features, no doubt. For the second time today, I am pulled out of my own head. Alice's face is partially obscured by her dark hair. That's how Alice is. She's this super independent strong fighter and the next second, she's a kid fascinated by the sunset and the vastness of our universe. That's what I love about my best friend, she has so many facets to her. Sometimes, I am almost envious because the only thing I have is training. I We both train but for polar-opposite reasons. I like chaos whereas she likes order.

In a way, I like to think of myself as an anachronist, the kind of person who wants to watch the world fall to pieces and build itself up from the ruins of the old. That's why I think I'm perfect for the Games. Or is that an anarchist?

I am tempted to ask Alice as the blues, purples and yellows in the sky are replaced by a deep velvet black. She'd probably know, she is actually good at this memorization crap, whereas I'm positively awful.

Before I can bring anything up, Alice asks me whether I believe I am ready for what's coming. It takes me a few seconds to understand what she's talking about.

"Oh, the Games? Yeah sure, why not. I just need to nail my volunteering moment, and I'll be good to go."

She frowns, clearly not satisfied with my dismissive answer. Alice's family was originally from District 4, displaced to District 2 during the war. She's been training with me ever since we were ten. We're part of the new training program Sujax has been pushing ever since he got the approval and funding. I know Athena was our first success story, and Sujax has promised many more Victors. It's funny to think that without the war, her family would have never migrated out of necessity, and Alice and I would have probably never met.

Now, I almost wish I remembered my old history classes, to visualize the mass migrations that had occurred on our continent when sea levels were rising and hunger and disease decimated the population. I tell Alice that much and she launches herself into an impromptu history lessons, as the stars appear above us. I see the smaller pan and the bigger pan, and point them out to Alice.

She laughs. "That's the dipper, you dipshit. And there's the archer."

She points to the sky and I attempt to follow her fingers. She knows a lot of things, just like my cousin Lydia. I guess that's why they get along so well.

I lie down on the grass, stretching my muscles. I open up my sandwich, and munch on it, trying to retain at least an ounce of historical information that Alice is launching at me. It's really crazy, how Alice remembers all these myths and legends and stories. It's almost like history lives through her, because they don't really teach us this at school anymore, which is a shame.

We stay like this for a while, her talking and me listening. After a while, she finishes and we are plunged into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the sounds of crickets and fireflies around us.

"It's really crazy, how meaningless our lives really are, in the grand scheme of things," I say.

Alice chuckles next to me.

"Hey there, master philosopher Luther!"

"I'm serious," I insist. "We think that like, this universe, we can fight in it, we can make it all about ourselves, but in the end it's all chaos. That's why I'm an anachronist," I punctuate the end of my sentence with the word I was struggling with before.

"I think you're thinking of anarchist," Alice snorts, rolling over and bumping me in the shoulder. "An _anachronism_ is when you're at a time when you don't belong, a chronological inconsistency of sorts."

"Yeah yeah, anarchist, whatever. It's just bullshit that so many people lay their lives for a cause and then they just die and the world keeps spinning. If that's not the embodiment of chaos, I don't know what is."

"Aren't you doing just that though? Laying your life down for the Hunger Games?"

"I guess, but you know, at least I have a chance of getting out alive," I retort.

"In the war, people had a chance of getting out alive too," Alice counters.

"I guess. I don't know man, I guess I have no idea what I'm doing but I feel like I _need_ this. Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely not, but that's you, Luther. You never make sense and it works out in the end."

I smile. I realize it's really late, but Alice's presence has always been comforting to me. She's the only one who kind-of gets the duality of what goes on in my brain, the legacy of my parents' blind belief struggling against my belief that it all doesn't matter in the end.

Maybe I'm also an anachronism in a way, stuck in a time where I don't belong. But it doesn't matter anymore, because I'm going into the Games and no one is going to stop me.

* * *

I get back home when both my aunt and cousin are already asleep. I sneak through the front door, skip along the creaking floor as quickly as possible so as to not wake them up.

I get into my room, which is a glorified attic, and make my bed. And because I'm still feeling incredibly awake, or I'm just feeling especially silly, I go up to the dusty mirror that stretches from my floor to the ceiling, on the back wall of my room.

"I volunteer," I utter solemnly. My reflection stares right back at me. My black hair is in disarray, and my eyes are like flint.

I decide to change it up a bit.

I cock my head slightly to the left, and smile lopsidedly, turning my body to the side.

"I volunteer," I repeat, sounding almost like I am flirting with the reflection.

Then I turn around, walk away from the mirror, and suddenly like I was stung by a bee, like a true madman, sprint back and hiss "I volunteer as tribute!". It comes out almost like a guttural croak. I look positively deranged, and I have to stifle a laugh. Now that would create an impression, let me tell you that. My reflection grins back at me, all angles and crooked knees and squinting eyes.

I roll my shoulders back, flex my muscles and stand proud and tall. Putting my feet slightly apart. I raise my right hand and walk to the mirror slowly. "I volunteer as tribute," I whisper, and finally, I like what I see.

I think I hear a noise downstairs, and get worried suddenly that aunt Roxanne will find me rehearsing my volunteering. That would be equal parts embarrassing, humiliating and mortifying. Even if I somehow make it out of the arena, I'd probably just trip onto a sword intentionally just to avoid ever seeing her again if that happened. What kind of moron practices and rehearses this crap anyways? To avoid this scenario, I promptly undress and lie down in my bed. Everything is quiet again.

My mind begins to wander again. In a way, I don't really have much of a choice about any of this. There's nothing here, for a guy like me, except for more yelling. When I was five years old, people were dying, and I thought it was a game. How different could it really be, once I volunteer?

* * *

_Notes: Here's the one and only Luther Szeto from District 2! I hope you guys enjoy my take on the next set of Careers we're going to have to look out for in the 13th Games. I really enjoyed writing this goofy friendly side of this kid, so tell me what you think. Are you disappointed I didn't follow up the gruesomeness of the last chapter? _

_Once again, a huge shoutout to the people who reviewed and who will review, to the people who read and to the people that advertise my SYOT on forums. You fuel my addiction, many thanks. _

_Peace and love. _


	7. Chapter 4: District 2 Seeva Andino

**Seeva Andino**

**District 2 Female, 18  
****District 2 Central Square  
****Reaping Day**

* * *

We're already on our way to the Central Square for the Reaping when my stomach growls loudly and Imari decides it's time for a quick snack break. I don't object, I _love_ food as much as the next guy, but the nerves are getting to me a little bit.

After all, I'm volunteering for the Hunger Games in a few hours. I'm the chosen female volunteer. As much as I wanted to downplay it initially, it's kind of a big deal. A _huge_ fucking deal that might end with me in a coffin, so sue me for being a little nervous. Imari is my best friend, my partner in crime, name it whatever you want, so obviously he sees right through my bullshit attempts at staying calm. He's the most important person in my life, so naturally, he does what all best friends do.

"Seeva, you having doubts?" he teases, knowing hell would freeze over before I quit something I started or backed down from a challenge. He pokes me in the ribs deftly, for maximum effect. I have to refrain from dislocating his finger, as we are wont to do in the Training Center, whenever someone tries to infringe upon our personal space.

"Nah, just worried we'll be late for my big moment, because of your fat ass."

The guy is a huge mass of corded muscle, so he knows I'm kidding. It's all insults, the two of us.

Imari laughs, a genuine warm sound.

"Fine, let's be the people that show up at 8AM to a ceremony that starts at 2PM. That's definitely not weird _at all_ and won't make _anyone_ question your sanity."

I laugh too, slapping myself on the forehead out of mock-embarrassment.

"First off, fuck _you_, and second, fine you're right," I yield, already turning towards our go-to bakery at the outskirts of the Districts. We'll take the long way back, because Imari's right. It's way too early still, even though my nervous system is going into overdrive.

As we cross the door of the bakery, a sourdough delicious smell assaults my nostrils. The heat from the ovens at the back can be felt all the way up to the counter at the front of the store, where a plump nice-looking lady is staring at us expectantly. Imari buys two twelve-inch sandwiches, and we go out of the store and sit in the shade, scarfing down our impromptu breakfast.

If there's one thing I can't get enough of, it's food. It's my favorite thing in the world, except for maybe Imari. It's pretty counter-intuitive then, that I'm willingly putting myself in a competition entitled the Hunger Games. Imari joked that the hunger is what I'd have the hardest time with. I don't even know if he's wrong, I _hate_ going hungry. I'm not a huge fan of murder but like, that's what I'm signing up to do, but the hunger? I guess I'm signing up for that too. It's _complicated_. I don't think I'm a bad person necessarily, and it's always at the back of my mind…the fact that all this hard work, all this training might be turned against me, with the audience slapping a villain label on my starving ass. It'll be what it'll be, but all I know is that I'll do my damn hardest not to die.

"You know, you're going to look like an absolute beast next to Luther, right?" Imari remarks, his mouth full. "I'm pretty sure you could crush him with your bare hands if you wanted to."

Luther is our male volunteer this year and it's…kinda true? I mean, Luther's tall, but I'm just as tall and I've got muscle. God knows I've bulked like there's no tomorrow.

He's got the speed, though. I have to remind myself again and again how dangerous speed can be, in hand-to-hand combat. In our tests, I know I scored much lower than Luther in terms of quick reflexes and speed of inflicting injury. But Sujax clearly thinks I'm good enough to send in, and he doesn't have the same reservations about me as Athena does. Rebellion family ties and all, she's not too hot on sending me as a District 2 representative, but that's too bad for her. I think that if we can get along, Luther and I, we'll have quite the complimentary skill set.

Imari is watching me, and can probably see the wheels turning in my head, as I furiously munch and chew.

"He's a fast one, I'll give him that," I finally object, sounding almost defensive even though Luther absolutely does not need me standing up for him. I'm pretty sure he could stab Imari, me and a majority of the population of District 2 before we even noticed. Athena's been really flipflopping all over the place this year with the male volunteer decision, so I'm pretty sure Luther's already in a stabbing mood.

What I've heard is that she's getting angsty about not bringing home any Victors. The last news that reached me was that she was leaning towards Gregory, another prospective trainee, but that Sujax veto-ed her decision. That's why I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Luther's going in with me, because I've trained with Sujax and he's our main Victor and Gregory just seems like a less sensible choice. Imari seems to share my opinion that Luther is the one District 2 will be sending, in the end.

I don't want to rehash our conversation about my doubts and anxieties about Luther, so I shut up and busy myself with the sandwich. When I initially told Imari how stressed I was about how this whole Career alliance thing will pan out, my friend just told me that once we stepped foot on the train, everything would fall into place. He understood what kind of implications and hidden meanings my worries had.

That's what's nice with Imari. We _get_ each other. To a point where we both don't even have to say anything for it to make sense.

Imari knows all about my history, my convoluted complicated and fractured history that some days I wish I could just bury. A history that I am not ashamed of, but one that had caused me so much unnecessary grief in my life. He knows both my parents died fighting for the rebels. In District 2, that kind of shit simply doesn't fly. God knows I was reminded of that fact when I was bouncing from community orphanage to foster home to government housing. No one took too kindly to an orphan whose parents had caused, in their eyes, great pain to our _great_ nation.

Imari's parents are also gone, dead during the Dark Days.

I don't know if they were on the same side, my parents and Imari's, but it doesn't matter if I'm being honest. We live in a new world where they're not here anymore. We need to pave our own way now, and my way was always with Imari.

He knows all about my sister Chaya and her twin Venthan. They were taken away the night my parents were killed, and I still don't know where they are. I grieve for them, I've explained to Imari that much. I still remember their faces, as they were carted away by Peacekeepers. I screamed and cried a lot, I remember too.

They left such a gaping hole that nothing can mend, but maybe volunteering will help. Maybe winning will finally give me the agency or the power to find them, or to finally put to rest the millions of theories I've concocted in my childhood. I had been so happy with them, so naïve and I still yearn to have someone like that, who could dispel my doubts and my worries. Imari's been like that for a while now.

Training and giving myself a purpose through the Games, that's another positive step as far as I'm concerned.

I don't really have another goal in mind. I'm eighteen and it might be the existential crisis talking, but I don't see what else is out there for me, what could finally make me into my own person. Into a Seeva that isn't just a daughter of rebels.

Like, in a hypothetical scenario where the Games were never in the cards for me, what would my options be?

If, somehow, I got a Peacekeeper job at the end of the line, I'd be shipped off to a district seething with rebels and dissidence. Probably District 10 or 12 with my luck, to prove my loyalty… the higher-ups have alluded to this much.

It's also important to note that I have approximately _zero_ desire to oppress rebellion through violent means. It would almost be poetic, that I grew up to be the thing my parents tried to rid the world of, and quite frankly, it would be a stain to their image and I can't bring myself to do that.

My parents were both medics and they never advocated for or condoned violence. Their purpose was to help and heal, and they had deemed that the Capitol was hurting people, a disease worth eradicating. That's all there was to it. Maybe I don't necessarily agree with their methods, but I can't ever imagine myself wielding a weapon, and straight-up executing people like them, people with rebellious inclinations. I've been in enough homes, surrounded by children whose parents got shot in front of them for instigating the rebellion and I can't be a cog in the Capitol's machine.

And on top of that, by becoming a Peacekeeper, I might never see Imari again. Once you serve, your life is the Capitol's. With a person like me, with rebellion roots digging deep into my tumultuous past, there's no way in hell they won't test me at every given moment.

They'll watch me like a hawk and make my entire life a payment of the huge debt my parents saddled me with, by fighting for the losing side. A debt I have no business repaying, if we consider the fact that I was fucking _five_ and didn't even know what they were doing until it was too late.

Not that I'd ever renounce my heritage. I'm an Andino through and through, and I have hope that somewhere in Panem, my siblings are out there. Maybe someday, if I win, I'll find them. Or maybe, they'll see me on-screen and remember the little girl who they used to play with, all these years ago. Maybe they're gone and I'll never know. But as it is right now, there is no way for me to reconcile my training, my family, my past and my allegiance to myself. That's why I'm going in the Games right? That's what I explained to Imari when he struggled with my decision.

He didn't understand at first, this drive to be _me_, to shrug off the burden of what my parents had done, to leave behind the weight of my older siblings' disappearance that forced me into a lifestyle I'd do anything to forget. The community homes and the derision, I'm done with that for better or for worse.

He understands now, I think, as he watches me. We finish our sandwiches in comfortable silence. I know that what comes next is going to be painful for him. To let me go after we spent so many years trusting and relying on each other. I already know he's the only one coming to say goodbye, once I'm led into the Justice Building.

In a way, there is really no one else significant left in this District for me, apart from Imari.

But he's such a strong tether that leaving is still incredibly hard. Everything that needed to be said has already been taken care of, so all we've got to do is spend the last minutes in that room, our foreheads together, our eyes closed, taking comfort in each other's presence. Sharing these possible last moments of a beautiful friendship that burgeoned from necessity and became something so much more.

This trust…this isn't something I will have in the Games. Imari might be the last person I can wholeheartedly say knows me as I am, and I want to take advantage of that before I leave.

I look at Imari with all the love I can muster for a person who essentially became the family that was taken from me so many years ago.

"So… you enjoying the view?" Imari suggests as he wiggles his eyebrows, stands up and hauls me on my feet.

I swat his arm away and replace my facial expression with a smirk.

"No, stupid, I was just thinking how much I'll _miss_ you, when I'm away," I say, my words muffled as he brings me into a hug.

Realizing the time of the Reaping is approaching, we take the long winding way through the district, on our way to the Square. Even as I get signed in and walk to my spot in the eighteen-year-old section, I think about how fitting of a goodbye this day was. Imari has been good to me, and now was a time to make him proud and do my very best to come back. To come back as my own person, with someone dear to me waiting for my return.

As I'm lost in thought, our escort begins and finishes his spiel. Picks a paper slip, the usual. As I expected, our male volunteer Luther steps in for a sixteen-year-old boy. I risk a look at Imari who I spotted hovering at the back. _I told you it would be Luther_, I try to convey with a small smile.

That's when shit goes sideways.

I'm going to preface this by saying that I don't really know Luther all that well, even in training. Girls and boys were always separated, the former trained by Sujax, the latter trained by Athena. I don't know who decided that but either way, that's how it's been ever since I started.

Anyways, I heard rumors that Luther had essentially forced himself into the volunteer position, that Athena wasn't completely sure because of some issue or another. I was only notified about a week ago, which is incredibly late by District 2's standards. I didn't really give it too much thought. If I'm being honest, I was always banking on the fact that Athena would pick Luther eventually due to Sujax pressuring her, that everything would turn out easy. I mean shit happens and I'm not judging. I trust that whatever choice our mentors make is the correct one, and I'll just have to make the best of it.

Anyways, instead of thunderous applause, shit gets really awkward. Athena stands up, piercing Luther with a million daggers metaphorically flying out of her narrowed eyes. He's either pretending he doesn't understand what is going on, or he is as stupid as a rock, but the guy keeps walking.

Athena puts her hand up slightly. If I was anyone else, I might have mistaken that for timidity. I can already predict bloodshed.

"There must be an error, there has been a change of plans in the proceedings," she utters slowly, her words dripping with warning and general promise of unimaginable torture to come.

I guess Luther wasn't supposed to volunteer. I know she can't say out loud that we have planned volunteers, but this is as close as she's ever gotten to blatantly stating it on live television. Even Sujax seems innerved.

I thought Luther had the position locked in, and I'm glad I'm not on stage yet because I'm confused out of my mind. Clearly, I'm not the only one misinformed, because Luther just keeps advancing, paying no mind to anyone.

Sujax glares at Athena, who subtly tries to convey some sort of secret message to someone in the crowd. All eyes are rivetted on Luther.

Suddenly, movement breaks the tension. Luther never did strike me as the kind of guy who gets stage-fright but out of nowhere, he jerks, and I think for a second he's completely lost it and is going to run down the steps, crushed by Athena's disapproving stare.

Instead, he dodges an attack from Gregory who literally looks like he appeared out of nowhere. The man is enormous and literally looks possessed, his face red and angry, but clearly Luther has no fucks to give. He side-steps and bashes his hand into Gregory's temple in one fluid elegant motion. The guy's reflexes are astounding. Either way, even if Athena was banking on Gregory to volunteer, that's not happening anymore because the guy is splayed on the ground, unconscious.

There's a weird little moment where it's almost as if there's a collective "what the fuck" moment, and I hold my breath. That's not good for when I need to step up, but I'll roll with the punches.

Luther narrows his eyes a little bit. And then the crowd goes wild for him.

I release my breath. That's what I like about District 2. They might judge you or even hate you, but in the end they'll still root for you over anyone else. There's something comforting in that almost-blind loyalty, especially for someone like me. Someone with rebellion ties and a mountain's-worth of prejudice stacked up against them.

Luther straightens himself and peers almost-naively at the crowd. He's actually quite different from our typical guys the district has been sending in for the past few years. Guys like Gregory who are huge and, in my opinion, boring.

That's why Luther's so striking and beautiful and _new_, looking like he's going to shake things up. He's very tall, lean and probably the fastest person I've ever seen in my entire life. I've actually tried building a rapport with him, banking on the fact that we'd be going together into the 13th Games,, but like…mixed feelings about _that_ whole deal, to say the least. We'll see how it goes. I'll save my judgement until then, because he's on stage now, which means we're going in together.

And as quickly as the crowd cheered for Luther, it goes silent again expectantly, as the escort walks to the other bowl. The moment seems to stretch and stretch, and I find myself having an out of body experience… I'm Seeva, but I'm also floating above myself, savoring the last possible second where my future is still uncertain. Where nothing's really locked in. The sun beats down upon my head, and I smile because I'm almost free.

And then the moment is over, and the escort calls a name. I hold my breath, my heart involuntarily beating faster.

"Meliora Sandoul," she punctuates the unknown girl's last name with a click of the tongue. That's my cue. I part the people in front of me, not forcefully but not gently either, lock eyes with Imari, who is hovering at the edge of the adults' section, giving me a look of such amazement, compassion, sadness and overwhelming pride. I've got no show or drama like Luther did. It's all me, real and genuine. Here we go.

"I volunteer."

* * *

_Notes: This concludes our look at the District 2 volunteers! Let me know what you think of Seeva? Is her attempts at becoming her own person through volunteering and competing in the Games justified? Did you like her? What did you think of Luther's awkward volunteering moment and how do you think Athena will react?_

_Next up, my District of origin. I'm very excited to show you what I've got in store. _

_Peace and love. _


	8. Chapter 5: District 3 Cassius Fleur

**Cassius Fleur**

**District 3 Male, 15  
****District 3 Central Square  
Reaping Day**

* * *

"Our male tribute is… Cassius Fleur!"

Our escort, Vienna, as I remember her name in a strange moment of absolute clarity, pronounces my name succinctly and clearly into the microphone. Now, here's the issue. A part of my brain, probably the rational one, understands that "Cassius Fleur" means that I've been reaped because _that's_ my name. I'm going into the Games. Another part of my brain though, the overwhelming one at the moment, is just screaming mindlessly and I almost succumb to the utter panic that grips me. Fuck. Fucking _fuck_, I'm going to die.

"Cassius Fleur, please come on stage!" Vienna brightly exclaims and I know I've got precisely twenty seconds to go up those steps before my already-low odds of survival start plummeting lower. No one likes a freezer.

I actually zone out, kind of like when I was climbing the stage when getting my utterly insignificant diploma at the age of twelve, which marked the end of my primary school education. I graduated at the top of my class, and it had seemed like such a big deal. My mom had been so proud back then, but I only remember the crippling anxiety that gripped me as I anticipated crossing the stage.

Now, as I find her in the crowd, she looks absolutely mortified with tears streaming down her face. Instead of a shiny diploma and a clap on the back, I'm getting shipped off to a death match. All my little moments, all my accomplishments, they all lead to this.

I'm going to die soon, I realize numbly as I struggle up.

My mom can't stop this. I look up at the screens in a panic, and see a pair of eyes identical to hers, reflecting the same kind of pure fear staring right back at me. That's me. That's _me,_ projected everywhere for the entire nation to see.

I'm really _really_ scared.

This shouldn't be happening; this isn't the kind of thing they should be doing in this country. This is what my dad fought against because he'd known it would degenerate into twenty-three kids dying every year. This is _so_ screwed up.

I'm already on stage, and I try to stop my legs from shaking in vain. I look desperately into the crowd, hoping someone is going to volunteer for me. _Anyone_. And then I realize something. My brother Ryland, he's eighteen, still. I find myself frantically looking through the crowd, searching for Ryland, because he might help me.

He might still _save_ me. That's what he's always done, whenever bullies tried to take my food or when the physical education teacher called me out in the middle of class and ridiculed me. It was always Ryland that resolved these kinds of issues, not my mom.

I find his face and reach out feebly with my arm.

I know everyone is looking, but there _has_ to be a way out. If he volunteers, then he's the one who will look strong and I won't have to worry about anything. Ryland is strong, angry and can fight, he can win these Games. I know he can win, and I know he'll make it back home.

The seconds stretch on and through the blur of my unshed tears, I see a distorted version of Ryland. He appears to be crying, but that can't be. Ryland never cries. He was the one comforting me when our dad died, he's the angry and feisty and pissed-off one.

_Please Ryland I can't do this_, I whisper under my breath, hoping he'll understand. He's not moving. I look back at my mom, and at the back of my head I am weirded out by how long this moment is taking. It never seems to take this long on television, usually. Why isn't Ryland volunteering for me?

Vienna clears her throat and that when I know it's over. Ryland didn't volunteer. This really can't be happening, oh god. All the sounds become muffled and I have to squint to make out what is going on. Somewhere along the line I realize my legs are shaking worse now.

Vienna calls a girl's name, one who looks even more terrified than I do and who bursts into tears. I don't know her.

And suddenly there's noise. A tall, dark and lean figure stalks out of the seventeen-year old's, with a resolution that almost makes me recoil. I know what's going to happen next, and I can't suppress the wave of helplessness that takes over.

She volunteers, loud and clear, to the amazement of the entire district.

Why couldn't someone volunteer for _me_?

When she comes near me, I see that her eyes are wide, but her facial expression is calculated. She knows what she's doing, and for some reason that sends chills down my spine.

We shake hands and her grip is almost-painfully firm. She looks me dead in the eye.

"Nice to meet you, partner." She almost looks…excited?

There's something not right with her, but I can't put my finger on it. She's way too determined, lacks any sort of restraint and I had no idea I could be any more terrified, but my heart drums on at a speed that feels like a pending heart attack.

I'm so screwed.

The crowd actually cheers for us a little bit before we are carted off to the Justice Building. I can't help but feel that the cheering is for the girl. My district partner now, whose name I missed, because I was too focused on not collapsing in a puddle of tears on stage.

The worst part is that as soon as I became old enough, my mom let Ryland and I watch the Games after school, to remind us of the kind of violence the Capitol made us inflict on each other, as punishment for trying to do the right thing. My mom was big on that whole deal, making us read through the bullshit and know the kind of evil that permeates our society. So I am certain that I've watched the Games at least seven times, and I theoretically know by heart how this goes. Despite that, I find myself unable to recall a single detail, a single clue that could give me an edge and calm me down.

It's like the uncertainty is about to drown me.

I find myself alone in a room and I start crying.

A knock at the door announces my mother's arrival. She bursts in first, followed closely by my brother. They are both crying almost as hysterically as I am.

"Cassie, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," my mom keeps repeating and I cling to her.

This _sucks_ so bad.

I am being crushed by her so hard that I feel like my lungs will collapse. Or it might be the fear enslaving me in a vice-like grip.

My mom keeps on sobbing, "I'm so proud of you, I'm so sorry." It's nauseating because these are the last things I will ever hear from her. I risk a look at Ryland who is almost hunched over, sitting on the chair.

Before I can stop it, a pang of resentment courses through my entire body.

"Ryland..." I start and I know he feels it too. Like he's failed me, he's failed our family because he didn't take up the opportunity to protect his little brother. I know objectively that it's not _fair_ to ask so much of him, but I'm just so scared and _I don't want to die_. Our family already has lost _so much_, and I can't bear to leave them.

My brother gets up and hugs us, both of us. We sink to the floor and we just cry together.

I don't know if, once I die, my mother will blame him for what happened, for not volunteering in my stead. Once again, my logic is split in two. A part of me hopes she won't, what's the use, really, but another selfish part of me expects it. Does he not love me as much as he claims he does?

After my dad and uncle started participating in the fight against the Capitol, my mother was against taking a specific side. She said it would backfire and turn this family to ashes and we'd never see it coming. She believed that neutrality was key to survival. My dad waved off her concerns, stating that the Capitol would lose in a matter of months and that her unborn child would live in a world free of their dictatorial grasp. And I was born, and the fight exploded into a full-on war conflict, and I remember spending years in our makeshift basement, my mother, my brother and I.

I remember being almost as scared as I am now. Even with my father's execution, my uncle and aunt's deaths, this is somehow infinitely worse.

"Stephane, you need to leave, I don't want to be forcing you guys out. It won't look good if I do," a faceless Peacekeeper mutters as he opens the door, clearly uncomfortable. He knows my mom then, if they're on a first-name basis. That's good, that means they won't hurt her when I have to leave.

I can't bear to let go though.

"Mom, please don't leave, I can't go, I can't go, I can't –" I sob into her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay baby, I love you."

"I'm so sorry Cas, I can't believe this is happening, I didn't want this to happen," my brother stutters as the Peacekeeper takes my crying mother by the shoulder and takes her away.

"It's okay Rye," I utter but it sounds hollow even to my ears. _Why didn't you volunteer Rye_, my brain keeps hammering at the very back, but I keep that part to myself.

And just like that, my mother and my brother are ushered out and I'm left completely alone.

I wipe my eyes, and new tears spring up. I don't think anyone else is going to come.

I knock on the door and another Peacekeeper opens.

"What's up kid," he says jovially, almost trying to make up for the somber atmosphere.

"I think I'm done now, can I go on the train?" I ask nervously, sniffling a little bit.

"I can't do that yet, protocol and all that, but I can call in Pulse, I know he wanted to talk to you."

Pulse, that's our latest District 3 Victor. I'm guessing he'll be mentoring me, so I nod. Pulse comes into the room, cane in hand. He smiles at me, almost apologetically.

"This sucks _hardcore_, amiright?"

I laugh, a little pitiful sound.

"Yeah, it really does."

He snorts and sits down. He's clearly in a lot of pain, even if he pretends like he isn't. I remember he won at a pretty young age, so he's supposed to be seventeen now? Eighteen? He doesn't look it, he looks so much older. My heart breaks a little bit.

Before I can stop it, I blurt out "I thought you were going to be grumpier."

Pulse must see my absolutely-mortified expression because he waves it off, a chuckle escaping his lips.

"I'm pretty sure everyone thinks that. Even me. I live to surprise."

He seems to get where my thought process is headed.

"Hey, no one thought I could win either. I'm pretty sure I was freaking out worse than you were, back there," Pulse says, grinning. I can't help but feel at ease with him. It's true, now that I'm not panicking as much, I remember he won at fifteen too.

"When's your birthday?" I ask, randomly. Pulse laughs.

"Of all the questions to ask… I was fifteen when I was reaped and I turned sixteen a week after my victory," he concludes, wiping his glasses.

"It doesn't mean that if you're younger, you've got no chance," he hastens to add, noting my crestfallen expression. "You just need to know what you're good at and stick with it. You never know! We've gotten lucky before and _I'd_ definitely not write you off."

I know he's trying to cheer me up and it's working, to a certain degree but I can't feel but get the crushing feeling that there's no hope for me.

I sit down.

"Hey um... Pulse, did they choose you because your parents were rebels?" I venture.

He frowns.

"Nah, I just got really unlucky. My parents have like, a million kids. I just happened to be the oldest and the only one pulling my weight."

"Oh."

He gives me a look.

"You think you got reaped because of your dad's shenanigans?"

Now it's my turn to stare.

"I don't mean to pry, I just saw your mom come alone and I assumed the old man kicked the bucket. And then you asked about rebellion so I just figured…"

"Yeah, that's it," I interrupt him, before he can go any further. "My dad made weapons for the rebels, and my uncle was a medic. Both were shot, along with my aunt. My brother respects them, but I kind of don't really give a shit anymore. I just don't want to die because of someone else's mistakes."

It's not entirely true, but to a person who I've literally met 2 minutes prior it'll have to do.

"So what can I call you?" Pulse asks, changing the subject.

"Uh…my mom calls me Cassie, Cas….my actual name is Cassius… I don't really care, for real," I stumble over my words, taken a little off-guard.

Pulse chuckles, patting me on the shoulder.

"Hey, at least your name isn't Pulse. What were my parents even thinking? Cassius is a good name though…it's got a strong feel about it. Lots of strong and powerful people were named Cassius you know."

I stay quiet, interested by what he'll say next. I never really asked myself about the etymology of my own name but now that he mentions it, I'm quite intrigued.

"There was Cassius, a roman Senator. I think he's one of the guys that shanked Caesar," Pulse states matter-of-factly. I know the story, and I stifle a laugh because of the way Pulse said it.

He picks up on my amusement right away, getting more into it.

"There was also a Cassius who was nicknamed the Lion of White Hall. That dude was …well he was something of an anomaly during his time because he fought against slavery, so you can say he was something of a rebel too." Pulse grins, and I can't help but be absolutely mesmerized by his knowledge. I wonder how he knows so much about a world whose fragments are scattered. Whose history is shrouded in mystery, in part due to the destruction that came with the war but also due to the heavy censorship by the Capitol.

"And then, there was a guy named Cassius who was the father of the greatest boxer of all time. Muhammad Ali was a legend, something like Sujax or Glenn, in the old world. He really knew how to fuck someone up using his fists alone."

I nod because I've heard of the infamous boxer. He was quite the fighter, at least I've heard, because no footage remains of his exploits.

"See? Your name… it _means_ something. It has a history and you have to hold on to what all these guys did. They made something or their lives and you can too."

"I'm only fifteen. I can't fight and I just don't know…" I start, getting worried again.

Pulse interrupts me.

"Cas, you need to believe in yourself. Your age, your strength. It matters but then it doesn't. You just have to know how to spot an opportunity and take it."

He pauses momentarily, appraising me with a look, and continues.

"Oh, and you clearly were out of it, for what I can't blame you, so I'm going to tell you what I noticed and I suggest you start paying attention from now on but…your district partner, Sal-something, she's clearly got something going for her. I haven't figured her out yet, and I told Eli right away I wanted to take _you_ on. So I haven't talked to the girl yet. But people don't volunteer for no reason. My recommendation is to stay on good terms with her, but not to underestimate her."

"Wasn't planning on it," I say, trying to make it into a joke but it falls flat.

"She kind of freaks me out, from the five seconds I interacted with her," I admit after a second of deliberation.

Pulse purses his lips, smiling flatly. "Yeah I was going to say the same thing, but I didn't want to plant any preconceived notions in your brain in case I was wrong."

He thinks for a second.

"I saw her saying goodbye to a little girl, but still. If there's one thing I can't tell you enough it's that everyone in the Games is your enemy. It's important to stay _sharp_, Cas. I'm telling you this because I saw you almost-freeze before coming on stage there. You snapped yourself out of it, and that's _great_, that's why I want to work with you, but you need to make sure to stay sharp. You partner certainly seems to be."

I can't help but agree with him. I also can't help but smile at the fact that he chose _me_, that he wasn't just saddled with me because Eli jumped on Sal-whatever at the first opportunity.

I'm not a second choice and it feels good amidst the horror.

He gets serious again.

"Let me just tell you something straight kid. I know it's scary and it's awful. I've been exactly in your place and I can guarantee you that there was nothing more that I wanted to do than to crawl into a hole and wait this out. That's not how this works though. You need to _grow up_ and you need to do it fast," Pulse says, his hand on my shoulder.

"I'll be here for you, but you need to do most of the heavy-lifting yourself. People your age got handed weapons and killed during the war. This is just _your_ war, you know?"

I nod. I understand. I can't pretend that I haven't been sheltered during my life. My brother Ryland, my mom... they took care of me. The three of us, we've always been a little quieter, a little sadder, a little more paranoid ever since the war ended and dad died. But we've always taken care of each other.

Now it's time to take care of myself. I need to do my best to survive, and as Pulse said, it's not a lost cause.

I'm smart, I'm logical_. I can do this_.

First though, I need to grow up. I glance up at Pulse and he nods. I think he sees the resolve appear in my eyes and that's why he's smiling. The smile is a little sad, a little tired. But he's not crying, and I shouldn't either.

We can do this.

* * *

_Notes: Here's a younger baby, Cassius Fleur from District 3! _

_Did you think his reaction was realistic? It's been a while since I've been 15, so any feedback concerning his narration is greatly appreciated. I was hoping to convey a more sheltered-nice-a-little-immature-but-smart kid vibe with him, and I would love to hear your opinion on his short but insightful interaction with Pulse. I am in the middle of nowhere, in a tiny town in Vermont where I have zero internet connection at my house, so I uploaded this in the middle of a storm near our library…. so I apologize in advance if there's more mistakes than usual. I didn't wanna get struck down by lightning in case the world was against me publishing fanfiction while I'm on vacation. SUE ME FOR BEING UNHEALTHILY EXCITED ABOUT POSTING. _

_Next up, Salamandra Mitch. I'm pumped! _

_Peace and love. _


	9. Chapter 6: District 3 Salamandra Mitch

**Salamandra Mitch **

**District 3 Female, 17  
****Sector 7, District 3  
****1 Day before Reaping Day**

* * *

_I hear echoes, voices, screams and suddenly smoke is penetrating the enclosed space from the ceiling. I can't see where I am, I'm disoriented. I recognize the screams as those of my mother and I rush down the hall even as the smoke descends upon me, almost suffocating. I run and run, as fast as my legs can carry me, but the hallway distorts, mounds of dark earth appearing on the ground, blocking my path and I can't get there in time. _

"_Sally, close your eyes Sally, please don't look!" _

_My mother is crying, cradling my father in her arms. There's so much blood, and another man is lying on the ground and I'm absolutely horrified. My mother's dark curly hair is matted and there is a huge bloody spot right near her temple. Her belly looks like it's about to burst out of her sleeping gown. That's my future sister in there, all of this can't be good for the baby. I am rooted on the spot as I see liquid leak from between my mother's legs, and I have no idea what's happening. My mother vomits and keeps crying, as my father gasps for air. His neck is punctured, and I can see the remains of his torn trachea flapping back and forth in his struggle for air. God, it's _that_ image that keeps recurring more than anything. It's the flapping of the torn skin, the wheezing and my mother's cries of agony as she goes into labor that drown me as I fall back, into nothingness. _

I wake up. The time is 3:47AM. The Reaping is tomorrow, in a little bit less than one day and 9 hours away.

I haven't slept properly in days and I'm clearly agitated.

The truth is that I am haunted. I'm damaged beyond repair. I was four, almost five, when I saw my parents die in front of my eyes, and I can't erase that memory from my brain as much as I want to. Our father, I tried to explain to my little sister Nambie a few times, he was killed by a rebel who broke into our home. Rebels tried to kill us all, due to our affiliation to the Capitol, but our father got him first. He sustained fatal injuries in the process and died right there, in the middle of my parents' bedroom. My mother died there too, a few horrible hours later.

My little sister Nambie, she was conceived during the war, and our family should have been protected from the atrocities that we were subjected to, from this nightmare that haunts me all these years later.

We were a great asset to the Capitol, supplying weapons and secret messages through advanced tech. I still struggle to understand the logic behind the mess that transpired that night I keep reliving in my dreams. I don't understand why we weren't notified of what couldn't have been anything but a planned assassination attempt. We owned the tech, after all, we should have been the first to know. On the days that I let myself, these poisonous thoughts turn deadly, and I need justice for what has been to us. I crave revenge, and I'm boiling over. I want to rip apart anyone who supports the people who wreaked havoc on our family. It might be sickening how hateful I've become, but that's the only way I can operate now.

Our mother, she was small, thin and the war had done her in. With the stress of the attack and my father's violent death…it was _too_ much for her. She was nine months pregnant when the attack happened. Nambie was so big, too. If we had had access to a hospital, I am convinced she would have survived.

The rebels though…they had the district on lockdown. The hospitals that hadn't been bombed were full of rebel soldiers. No one would have wanted to help traitorous scum like us. Our side won, but my family lost it all. My poor mother died in agony, delivering Nambie. I was four, and I wished so _hard_ I could be a little older, I wished I had known what to do. I wished I could have saved my dad. Killed that monster who attacked us. Wishes didn't get shit done though.

For a lack of actually applicable skills, I did the next best thing.

I called great-uncle Ioh, who lived on the other side of town. I begged him to come help, _god_, I still remember that awful call. The fact that our telephone line was still working gave me so much hope that my five-year-old brain fully _believed_ he would be able to revive my dad and save my mom. He was reticent, but he came. He was clearly moved by a child's pleas for help. That was the last time I ever begged anyone for anything.

Ioh was a trained nurse, and he told me there was nothing that could be done for my father. He then took a blunt knife, and essentially _carved_ Nambie out of my mother. I don't remember whether this is an overdramatization, whether my child-brain had made up additional horrors to punctuate the absolute nightmare that event was, but by the time Ioh was finished, my mother was a mess of lacerated flesh and blood. She expired before Nambie could be properly delivered, drawing her last breath as the newborn baby drew her first.

After that night, I never saw Ioh again. If I'm being honest, I'm not sure how Nambie didn't die and how I was able to feed her, clean her, and keep her alive on my own. There are so many details that are fuzzy now, as though I was an automaton and my memories of subsequent actions have been erased. All I knew was that I loved Nambie more than anything in the world, more than myself, more than I had loved my parents. It was an awful time.

When I was younger, I used to pretend I was over this tragedy. I was convinced I was protecting Nambie this way, protecting myself. It didn't stop the bullies and the discrimination we had to survive, as we bounced around the district after the war.

No one wanted us.

What this taught me, above all is that we don't get to choose, we're born with a side picked for us. I didn't ask my parents to support the Capitol, but that's what I got regardless, and I stand by their decision. Now, I just need to do right by them, and keep their legacy alive. I am proud of what they've accomplished, and they deserve to be remembered as heroes in someone's eyes. I really try my best to convey this to Nambie.

No one ever wanted us, and I hate the world for it, but that's just how things go sometimes. God knows I'm strong enough to deal with it. Now that I'm older, even with my limited perspective in this shithole world, I know for a fact I'm not over what happened to me when I was a child. What I've learned is that maybe I don't have to be, maybe if I lean into it, give myself fully to the rage, I can ascend to a life I deserve. A life Nambie should have gotten from the get-go. A life my parents should have gotten to experience while their enemies rolled in their graves, instead of roaming about the entirety of Panem.

As I lie in my cot, I realize I have a test today that I hadn't studied for. It won't matter, in the grand scheme of things but the fact that I _forgot_ something makes my annoyance spike. Since sleep is clearly not in the cards for me tonight, I get up and flip absentmindedly through the pages of my notebook. I know this stuff already.

Weirdly enough, I've always had trouble sleeping, as far as I can remember. Any psychoanalyzing asshole can probably diagnose me and attribute this to the trauma of my childhood, but I'm pretty sure it's just my _thing_.

The nightmares don't help, strictly speaking, but regardless, sleeping doesn't come easy. In a way, I'm grateful for it, I have more time on my hands to do other stuff. I'm not the nicest person around, not by a mile, but I've got a lot on my plate and if I wasn't smart and a quick learner and something of an insomniac, I don't think I would have had the semblance of a normal life my sister and I had now. No one likes me, but at least we've got shit under control now.

Everyone likes Nambie, at least before they hear her family name. She was always nice, a little on the simple side, but I say this as a fact, not as an insult. She never really possessed the sharp keen mind I have, but she has other qualities I sorely lack.

Still, it's not kindness that keeps people off our case. Nambie shares too much. She gives away our food, she talks, and I'd be lying if some days it didn't _drive me up the fucking wall_.

I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I sacrifice a lot for her, I've done it all my life and I'd do it again, but for the meager scraps of food I put together to go to some snotty brat I don't even know? Is it too much to ask for my shit to not be given away for free halfway across the district? That's where most of my arguments with Nambie stem from.

I look at the time again. It's 6:40AM already. Time flies when you're overanalyzing your own existence.

I flip through the pages of my book one last time, close it, and wake up Nambie.

I'm in a good mood today, so we walk to school together. Her stomach audibly grumbles.

"Sorry Sal," she says apologetically, her hands automatically circling her tiny waist. She's barely thirteen, but she looks younger just because of how small she is. She reminds me of our mother, in some distant way.

"It's okay Nam, I've been really busy lately, I didn't find us a breakfast," I reply, getting slightly pissed off at Nambie for having such a demanding appetite. I know it's not her fault, but this girl _eats_, and I have no idea why she's still so thin and hungry. Then I stop myself. No point in getting pissed off at an issue that isn't anyone's fault.

We arrive to school and I give Nambie a quick hug.

"Don't get into trouble now," I caution her in a faux-concerned voice. She giggles, giving me a kiss on the cheek and I smile. It's a joke between us, because out of the two, I'm the one who is the most likely to get fucked up by one issue or another. She's too nice for that stuff, and again, people actually _like_ her. That's a whole deal, since we live in a _society_ and all that crap.

I wave at her as she runs to join her classmates, and head to my own section of the school. As I round the corner, I see an agglomeration of girls standing and seemingly waiting for me.

"Look who it is…," Regina mutters under her breath, thinking I can't hear her, "It's the Mitch Bitch."

I smirk.

"Aren't you the sister of the poor asshat whose face I ground into the pavement yesterday?"

I know exactly who she is, but I like fucking around with her. She's such a piece of shit, and so is the rest of her family so I don't exactly feel bad.

Regina frowns, crossing her arms.

"My brother isn't an _asshat_ and he did nothing wrong. You _took_ his food, after bullying him. He _told_ me he didn't even fight you and you _still_ punched him. We're _all_ fucking hungry, I get it, and Capitol-supporting scraps of garbage like you and your sister _shouldn't_ be entitled to taking other people's shit."

The way she puts emphasis on every other word makes me want to punch her too.

I put on the creepiest disconcerting smile I can muster and strut right up to her face.

"Re-gi-na, there _must_ be some sort of misunderstanding, he _gave_ me his food, and then when he didn't like the way I _thanked_ him, he _tried_ to take it back. I can't _stand_ people who go back on their word."

I don't emphasize the fact that the dude is literally older and bigger than me, because that would just add salt to the injury, and I feel like flaunting my skills any further is just unnecessary at this point. Regina becomes three shades redder, her cheeks slightly puffing out. She's pissed off because I'm mimicking her, I beat up her brother and I am entirely unapologetic about it. She knows I _just don't give a shit._ Dealing with entitled morons that think they can teach me a lesson is my specialty. As I like to say, this ain't mama's first rodeo.

I stifle a laugh, slinging my bag behind my back and crossing my arms too.

"Liar!"

She actually lunges at me. I swiftly kick her right in the shin, and she falls like a sack of bricks. I reposition myself in a fighting stance, like I've practiced a million times. I bring my fists up, putting my elbows down to protect my exposed ribs.

Now, if there's one thing I know, it's that Regina comes from a shady part of town. She knows her way around in a fight. Luckily, I do too.

I'm going into the Games this year, I want to warn her. No one knows yet, but I've trained for this for years. I know I'm no Career, but I've got the necessary rage, the strategy and the drive stored in my heart to make up for it. The rage that makes me forget about pain, about sadness, about everything except the need to make the asshole on the other side of my punches pay. And I'm no mindless idiot, either. You have no idea the thought that goes into a fight until you practice.

She headbutts me, and everything goes red. She doesn't know this is _what gets me going_. She doesn't know that's what gives me incentive.

"Come at me, you stupid whore," I slur, spitting blood on the ground. "you have no idea who you're messing with."

I let muscle memory take over as a fight erupts right there, in the middle of the recreation designated area.

* * *

Professor Yanine stops me as I collect my things and prepare to walk out of her office.

I wipe my bloody lip. That's the only injury I sustained during my fight, which is highly impressive, if I can say so myself. The same can't be said of Regina. Pretty sure they'll have to scrape her off the pavement. Maybe not, I'm definitely exaggerating, but she was quite the mess when I was pulled off of her. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't satisfied with the result.

"Salamandra, you are aware that this is your third transgression this month? This is your _third_ physical altercation…I can't stress enough how unacceptable it is," Professor Yanine elaborates, as I stand there.

She continues, "I don't understand this… this need for violence. You have so much potential in you, Mrs. Mitch. You have the highest marks in mathematics, you are the most brilliant student I have had since the war and I am proud to be your teacher. I have heard only praise of your intellectual skills, and must I remind you that our school is one of the most competitive institutions in the country, except for the Capitol."

I nod, because what else is there to say? Yeah, I know I'm smart. It's not like what we're being taught is advanced nuclear physics, which, by the way, I'm sure I could probably grasp in a tenth of the time anyone else at this stupid school would. I respect Professor Yanine though, so I don't start any bullshit. I just keep nodding.

She's the principal of our school, but she also teaches calculus, and I genuinely think she's one of the most competent people at our institution. She insists on the students using her first name too, so she's not one of those pretentious assholes that pretend like they're so much better than you.

Her expression turns sad.

"Salamandra, can you help me understand why you do these things? You have a bright future ahead of you. I am not allowed to say this usually, but I have seen many people looking into your file due to your exceptionally high scores, only to back away at the last second because of your…reputation. Why do you do these things? I am worried and heartbroken, that's why I am asking, not as your principal, but as a person concerned for your wellbeing."

I know she's just pretending to care. That's all people do, to get something out of you. I can't pinpoint what exactly she wants, so I stall.

"I don't know, I guess I have anger issues or something."

She doesn't buy it.

"Salamandra, I know you're too smart for this. Why do you do this?"  
She grabs me by the shoulder, and I'm startled by the physical contact. I kind of crack, only for a second.

"Because I'm going into the Games and I don't give a shit about what the people in this _shithole_ of a district think of me. I want to live a normal life and I want to show them that they can't treat us like crap, just because we are right about the way we think!"

Professor Yanine actually flinches away. By the looks of it, I said something she wasn't expecting. _Oh well_. Honestly, I'm not a huge fan with the way the Games are becoming just purely entertainment, when previously they were used to punish the kids of prominent rebels. I mean, I _get_ it, we're running out of rebel kids because the Capitol has been so efficient at the whole "cleanse the population of rebellious vermin" spiel, but still. That's partly why I'm going in. The fame, glory and money are also pretty sweet. I genuinely think I can pull it off. But people like Regina who make my skin crawl and force their righteous shit down my throat deserve to pay. I don't tell her all of this though.

"Salamandra, please don't throw your life away like this. You are better than this," she cautions me quietly, sadness tinting her voice.

"If I change my mind, will you still give me that suspension?" I joke, rubbing absentmindedly at my chin.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Mitch, beating people isn't the key to solving your problems. I can't just stand by that kind of behavior."

I understand. "I'm sorry Professor, but I'm pretty sure it is. Either way, I've already made up my mind," I apologize back, saluting her and walking out of her office.

* * *

**Reaping Day**

I volunteer. At the top of my lungs, I scream, taking quick intention-filled steps towards the stage. One part of me hopes no one else can hear the desperation, the drive and the unyielding fear that someone else will snatch up this opportunity from me. An irrational fear, no doubt, considering our pathetic district breeding cowards. Another part hopes they do hear it, so they know I'm not messing around. While the Games might be a young institution, I've already seen my fair share of dumb volunteers who do what I've just done by mistake.

I've thought it through plenty. The girl whose place I take is my sister's age, but I don't know her. I don't particularly care either, and I try to not let the relief-filled sobs coming from the section where the relatives are roped up, their children out of reach, break my confident stride. The little girl, the one I volunteered for… her parents must think me some kind of intervening angel. _Good_, I think. More sponsor money that way, especially if they're well-off or influential. Not that I can't do without it.

I know hard days are ahead, I'm not delusional. I know Nambie won't understand what I've done, and that's exactly why I need to try my damn hardest to get back to her, to explain why I had to leave in the first place. She's not like me, she's not as smart, not by a mile, but she also doesn't have the drive to carve out what we deserve for ourselves, no matter the cost. I love her. That's why I'm going in. At least partly.

But for now, I decide that I can lay my motivations to rest, and bask in the glory of the moment. I did it, I volunteered and I'm a hero to these people for the time-being. If I don't win, if I die, they will forget about me as soon as my cannon sounds. This instant though, I am their beacon of hope.

The escort beckons me closer to him and I almost-recoil before thinking better of it. It's all about my image.

I instead look around, my face filmed from all possible angles and appearing on the screen around the Square. My pupils are dilated to a maximum, conferring me an almost insane-look. I love it.

"We've got a brave one this year! Tell me my dear, what is your name?"

I articulate into the microphone.

"It's Salamandra Mitch."

They will learn to respect that name.

* * *

_Notes: Fun fact that might or might not be mentioned in the story since no one except for me probably cares: the girl Sal volunteered for was Professor Yanine's only niece, not that Sal will ever know. How shitty do you imagine Yanine felt in that split second before Sal volunteered? What did you think of Salamandra? What about the hardcore case of unreliable narrator? Do you think she's going to get along with her district partner or are they complete polar opposites that will stay far from each other? _

_So many questions this time around, I would love to hear your input. _

_We're 1/4__th__ through with all the tributes, which is exciting on its own. Next up, District 4 children, which are quite the pair, let me tell you that. _

_Thank you for all those reviewing and letting me know what they think. I consistently get inspired from your reactions, and it's great! _

_Peace and love. _


	10. Chapter 7: District 4 Scout Trinian

**Scout Trinian **

**District 4 Male, 13  
****District 4 Justice Building  
****Reaping Day**

* * *

Trinity speeds through the obstacle course I built for her, racing towards me with blinding speed. She lurches directly into my arms, snuggling into the nook of my arm and as I laugh.

"She's really learning fast, isn't she?"

I turn around smiling. It's Alex Odyssea, with their red fiery hair and their equally fiery personality. I don't have that many friends, but from those that I do have, Alex is certainly the one I trust the most.

Alex skips down to me, squatting down to my level and peering curiously at Trinity. Their hair flops down into their eyes as they raise their pale eyebrows. I scrunch my nose and they make a face back, mimicking me.

"She's a cute one, isn't she?" they remark, trying to pat Trinity on the head.

Trinity snaps her tiny jaws up in response, and as they shut, a small pink tongue is seeing lolling on the side. I giggle. Alex knows it's not personal, Trinity's just got a bit of a temper, and I'm sure she was expecting a reward for the makeshift maze she just completed. Unfortunately, I didn't bring any snacks along, so she probably decided Alex's finger was worth the shot.

Trinity's a real troublemaker and she looks like one too. She's grey, with fur missing in patches and scars running across her body, whose patterns I like to trace to her annoyance. She has a part of her left ear missing, as though someone bit it off. I don't even want to think of the fights she was in. She's also a rat, which is only slightly unconventional, as far as pets go. When I found her, she immediately reminded me of some sort of furry vicious rodent pirate.

When I was little, there used to be a series of books I absolutely loved. The main character was a sea-faring ferret called Trinity, who was a swashbuckling conqueror of the seas, a treasure aficionado and an absolute adventure fiend. The novels were written just before the Dark Days by a patriot loyal to the Capitol, and were a best-seller a couple of years before the war erupted in full, so I was actually able to enjoy them as part of the literature that hasn't been banned in Panem. Book-Trinity had an eye-patch, a rapier sword and an unfaltering sense of justice. I loved those books, and that's why I called my Trinity the way I did. It also helped that it sounded a lot like my last name. She reminded me of those stories I used to immerse myself in, and in the first few months that I had her, I used to tell her those stories as she paced anxiously and furtively around my room, searching for a way out. She doesn't anymore, because I'm pretty sure she understands she's _my_ Trinity now.

"She's cute but she's feisty," I say, caressing Trinity's little head as she leans into my touch. She really is. I found her a few months back and I can truly say I love her to bits. I don't think I've ever gotten around to loving something as fast as I did with Trinity. My mom was skeptical at first, but she learned to like her as well.

My mom was pretty skeptical about Alex too, in the very beginning, because of the issues she thought being friends with them would entail. I still remember when I was starting my first day of school and meeting Alex there, and telling my mom about the new friend I'd made. About the way they felt about themselves. She used to be worried that I'd get picked on by the other kids, because of Alex.

I have to admit I didn't really think much about it until they explained it to me.

I _get_ it now though. A lot of people don't, but I do. Alex is just a kid like any other, but they don't necessarily feel like a boy or a girl, and I explained that to my mom. Alex told me it was called being non-binary.

My mom understands it too now, when I explained it that way, and I know now that she sees Alex and I together at school, she's happy for the two of us. Through thick and thin, through the bouts of bullying and the recesses spent in our own little corner, we stuck together at all times. If anything, it was always Alex that stood up for the both of us, since I was always the one who preferred to let things slide.

Anyway, we've always clicked, Alex and I. Ever since we were little kids, we went on adventures, fueled by Alex's crazy ideas and me just tagging along. I've never been as loud or as creative as Alex, but it's always just _worked_.

And now Trinity, my pet rat, joined our ranks and we've really been having a great time this year.

Alex nudges me suddenly. "Are you ready for our fitness test this Friday?"

I nudge them back. "Nope, are you?"

As though we both got possessed by some hellish demon all of a sudden, we both jump up and sprint down the street, Trinity racing alongside us. As I'm sprinting, I make a mental note to come pick up our obstacle course later. I know no one is going to steal it or destroy it because it's made out of useless pieces of garbage. It's also near my house, which is only a few streets away from our Town Square. That's where the highest number of Peacekeepers patrol, so theft is uncommon in our part of town.

We keep running until we reach the rocks that line the waterfront. The waves are crashing against each other with resounding noise, and I'm out of breath, taking in the sharp smell of the ocean.

It's nice.

I can't stand being on a boat, because contrarily to most people in our District I actually get violently sea-sick the moment I step off land, but here, it's _actually_ nice.

I beam at Alex.

"Beat you to it!"

Alex snorts. "I'm pretty sure Trinity beat us both. Face it, we've got noodle legs."

I laugh weakly, still out of breath.

"I'll carry you on my back for the running test, if you drag me behind you while you swim for the nautical component," I remark, patting my leg for emphasis on how noodle-y my legs actually are.

Alex giggles earnestly.

"If only we could merge our skills together, we'd make one functional human being, Scout."

I chuckle, because it's true. We really do complement each other and that's exactly _why_ I couldn't ask for a better best friend.

Alex picks up on the fact that I'm in an exceptionally good mood and starts skipping and smiling, whistling a tune we learnt in music class. It's been stuck in all of our heads for weeks, and I laugh at the sudden memory that comes flooding my brain.

Our teacher, Mrs. Yuoh, really takes everything _way_ too seriously. She is hyper-fixated on the fact that her students need to appear professional at a school concert, and we have to ace this absolutely moronic tune that literally no one cares about. I'm on the triangle, a little silvery obviously _triangular_ instrument, and Alex is on the xylophone and we both just keep missing our cue.

"It's on the count of three, Scout, oh for god's sake, _THREE,_ Scout, can you get this into your thick skull!" Mrs. Yuoh screamed every class for the past two weeks, as Alex died in the background, turning a shade of dark red, their hair flopping around as they almost suffocated from suppressing their laughter. Mrs. Yuoh was so pissed off!

At first it wasn't even on purpose, and I was horrified by the confrontation, but after a while, it became a running gag in our class. I mean, who the heck even _cares_ that much about some stupid school concert anyways?

"Hey Alex, remember Mrs. Yuoh's absolute meltdown?" I ask grinning, knowing the answer already. Of course, they remember. It was a whole _thing_, for a while.

"Yeah dude, it was really hilarious. I'm pretty sure she wanted to rip all of our heads off, she said so herself, but it was funny while it lasted."

Even with the Reaping looming over us, our fitness test coming scarily close and Mrs. Yuoh's plan to plunge our entire grade into oblivion if we don't excel at our upcoming concert, my heart feels light and happy.

I've got my best friends at my side, and I know life has got a lot of things in store for me this year.

* * *

"Scout!"

I turn around in the spinning chair I'm seated in, and my mother launches herself at me, wrapping me tightly in her arms. Her eyes are dry, but they convey such pain that the air is knocked out of my lungs for the second time today.

I can't believe I've been reaped. I just can't believe it.

It seems so surreal.

"Mom, I'm sorry," I choke, unable to come up with anything else.

"Baby, it's okay, it's not your fault, I'm the one who is so so sorry," she replies while hugging me fiercely. My mom isn't very emotional, not outwardly at least, but I can feel her heart beating in her chest harder than it's ever beaten before.

I look up into her eyes.

"I didn't cry mom, I didn't. I was so _scared_," I manage, trying to convey what I'm feeling, but failing miserably.

I don't know how, I don't even make an ounce of sense, but she understands and holds me closer.

"I know Scout, I am so proud of you. You looked so brave. You walked up and you were so brave," she repeats herself, her voice breaking on that last word.

A part of me wishes I could just believe her. But I'm not a baby, I know for a fact that I froze when they called my name. I know I panicked, I felt my blood turn to ice in my veins, and I saw my eyes as wide as saucers projected on all of the screens. I felt the Peacekeepers' hands on my arms as they escorted me all the way onto the stage, and I remember the silence that followed the question the escort asked me. I don't even know what it was, because I was too terrified.

I'm still glad my mom says it though. She's always known how to calm me down, even in a situation like this. I lean into her, and I feel like she's almost going to start crying.

"Scout, you need to listen to me right now. I know it's going to be scary, but you have to try. Don't worry about anything except the Games themselves, okay, sweetheart?" my mother says shakily, pulling herself together.

She bites her lip.

"I know a lot of awful things are going to happen, but you need to stay focused and you need to make friends, okay?"

Friends. It's hard to make friends. I'm sure there's not going to be anyone there like Alex.

I nod, even though it doesn't feel convincing.

My mom keeps searching my face, caressing my cheeks and nervously stroking my hair. It's as though she's trying to memorize every detail of me, before I go. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

I gulp, and she can see the unbearable sadness in my eyes, because she hugs me closer again.

"Scout, please listen to what I'm telling you right now. Make friends. You might meet some cool people who you'll be able to connect with and just…"

I know she's at a loss of words because what else is there to say? I'm thirteen but I'm not stupid. I know I'm going to a place people rarely return from.

"Please baby, please make some friends there, okay? It might even be alright."

The shakiness in her voice, usually so strong and so determined breaks my heart and I acquiesce, just to make it stop.

We just stand there like that, hugging and I feel a few tears fall onto the top of my head. I swallow back the knot in my throat that, if it surfaced, would send me into hysterics and I'm scared I'd never be able to go. I just hold onto my mom, until she's the one to loosen her grip.

"I know Alex wants to see you too, and I don't want to use up all your time," my mom says, her voice only a weak whisper. She looks directly into my eyes and she looks so much older, as though this moment has aged her significantly over the past few minutes.

"I'm sorry I was always working Scout. I just needed…I wish I had spent more time with you, but I love you _so_ much."

I gulp, purse my lips, and then when the sob no longer threatens to rip itself out of me, I say just as quietly, "I love you, mom."

"I love you more than anything in the world, Scout. You're my everything."

She takes one last look at me, lets go of my hand and walks out.

My mom leaves, and I watch the door close, thinking about what she said to me.

I really hope I'll be able to find people who are nice to me. I hope I'll be able to find friends, because if I don't, I don't know what I'll do.

After my mom, Alex runs in.

They're carrying Trinity. I have no clue how they got her here in such a timely fashion, but I couldn't be more grateful, considering the situation I'm in. I really just want to make sure Trinity knows she'll be taken care of. I notice Alex is completely out of breath, their chest heaving intensely, as they struggle to hide it from me.

I realize they must have run all the way to my house to get Trinity here. I am so thankful, and I choke down the feeling that is creeping and balling up in my throat again. I swallow my shock and despair, smiling at Alex.

Alex smiles sadly back at me, and hands me the little cage with Trinity. We don't usually keep her like this, but she doesn't really listen to anyone else but me. And when I'm gone, for the Reaping, or for a school presentation where I can't keep her close, Alex designed a small cage where Trinity has a ton of food and warm blankets to keep her comfortable. That's the only way people except for me can handle her, because she's not the friendliest with those who she doesn't know as well as she knows me.

I take her out of her cage, her little paws extending towards me. While I bring her close, I look at Alex, trying to convey the best mental vibes I can muster at the moment. My friend knew I needed this more than anything, and there's really nothing else to say about that, right?

Trinity wiggles her ears right into my nose. I think she can feel that I am leaving, but I just wish I could actually _tell_ her that I'm not abandoning her. That I'm being forced away. That I love her something fierce.

"Trinity," I say, my voice slightly cracking.

She looks up at me with those two little black eyes, full of intelligence and understanding. I hug her hard. I can hear her tiny heartbeat through her soft little grey belly.

Alex goes on his toes and hugs me too. Their red hair goes into my eyes, and I shut them. It would be so easy to cry right now.

"Hey Scout…I really don't know…I don't know what to say."

I know they're as confused and upset by this as I am.

"I'm really in a lot of _treble_, aren't I?"

They look at me, confusion permeating their features.

"Oh you know the conversation we had earlier today? About Mrs. Yuoh? Treble is like, a _thing_ in music, never mind," I struggle to clarify, trailing away uncertainly.

My mind is all over the place, and it's almost like I'm hanging onto random moments and attributing an importance to them because I know I'm about to be wrenched away from here. Random conversations, random comments, random jokes are all ricocheting around in my skull and I can't seem to settle on one. They're all just flying around like some broken amusement park ride, threatening to spill over out of my mouth.

This is _really_ not working. Alex plasters a smile on their face, but everything just feels off.

"Yeah, that's actually a good one Scout, I'm sorry, I'm a little out of it," they say, patting me on the shoulder.

"It's okay Alex. Thank you for being my best friend, I guess. Can I ask you one thing?" I venture, caressing Trinity, as though by reflex.

"Take care of Trinity for me, okay?"

Alex nods, and then their eyes widen with a sudden idea.

"I don't really know the rules Scout, but you're allowed to bring something with you, right? Maybe you can take Trinity, she might make you feel better there, wherever you end up? I can go and ask the Peacekeepers, I can be right back in two seconds," Alex hurries, knowing our time together is almost over.

They slip out, and I anxiously hold Trinity closer. Instead of Alex, a Peacekeeper enters the room. I risk a look outside of the slightly opened door, and see Alex struggling against another Peacekeeper, in the process of being escorted out forcefully. Alex catches my eye and mouths something at me. I nod, but I don't understand what they said. Instead, I replay our last hug in my head, because this is undeniably our goodbye.

"Your time is up, kid. On the train you go."

I pet Trinity and take one step forward. "I'm ready. My friend was only going to ask if I can take Trinity with me?"

The Peacekeeper glares at me severely.

"Drop the rat, we can't take vermin on the train."

I persist timidly.

"But mister, sir, sorry, she's my pet and I want to take her as my thing I'm allowed to bring? My token?"

The Peacekeeper takes off their helmet, and I see the man's severe and unforgiving stare that makes me shrink back. He's already so huge, and the baton at his side looks scary. I just want to take Trinity with me, at least on the train.

"Kid, there are protocols in place. Tributes aren't allowed to bring pests into the Games or on the train. He looks at his watch, and adds sharply, "your time's up. Drop the rat and come with me."

I hug Trinity closer to my chest, and she whimpers. I don't think she wants to leave either.

"Please sir, I'll only take her on the train. I know our escort probably won't mind bringing her back home after," I start, but am interrupted by the man, who is clearly getting impatient.

He takes me by the scruff of my neck with one hand, and with the other slaps Trinity out of my hands. It actually hurts, as he snaps his gloved hand on my exposed wrists, but it must be even worse for Trinity that hits the floor with an audible smack.

"Trinity!" I squeak weakly, wrenching myself out of the Peacekeeper's grip and trying to reach her.

Trinity arches her back, and honest-to-god hisses at the Peacekeeper. He actually lifts me, and starts walking with me in his arms. Trinity bares her teeth, one canine missing on the right side of her face, leaving a gap through which her tongue lolls out of her mouth in the silliest way. She looks anything but silly right now, but the Peacekeeper's boot is so much bigger, and he kicks her through the open door. She scurries away onto the train tracks that are already visible. The train tracks that are going to lead me away from home.

Just like that, Trinity's gone.

I immediately go limp in the Peacekeeper's arms, and I don't know how long it takes, but he sets me on the ground, adjusting my shirt so it doesn't look as ruffled from when I struggled against him.

"Don't look so sad, kid," he comments, ushering me out of the door. "A little rat like you attracts your own kind. You'll find a ton of vermin in the Games."

I'm scared and there's no point in arguing with this man who clearly takes pleasure out of intimidating people who are weaker than him. I just keep my mouth shut. I don't understand why he has to be so mean when my day is already going horribly. If it were Alex, they would have protested, kicked and screamed and hit him probably. I don't though. I never had that kind of energy inside me.

I take one last look at the back of the Justice Building as I step onto the train platform.  
_Goodbye District 4_, I think. Then I venture a quick look at the tracks where Trinity disappeared to. She's grey, and she has white fur spots so it would be hard to spot her in the mesh of greys of the railway, the stones and the earth. It's even harder when the tears in my eyes threaten to spill over, blurring my vision for the first time since I was reaped.

I know there are so many things I should be thinking about, but the only thought that sticks is the fact that I hope that Trinity will be taken care of. I hope she makes her way home.

But I know awfully deep down that without me there, she's never coming back.

* * *

_Notes: Our smallest guy yet, the cute and adorable Scout Trinian from District 4! __Scout's very young and has limited perspective of the world but he doesn't have the same reservations the adults around him have so he's this super optimistic accepting and kind child stuck in a really crappy situation. __I apologize for the longer wait this time around, I was overwhelmed by work and writing scientific papers, which isn't comparable in terms of fun but alas. My conclusion?_

_Fanfiction writing 1 scientific writing 0. _

_Anyways, I hope this guy was worth the wait. I was very looking forward to you discovering him, since he's one of the nicest tributes I got. Let me know what you guys think of this sweet soul. What did you guys think of Alex and Scout's friendship? Any comment, suggestion, praise or criticism counts and means the world to me! And on another note, I hope you guys enjoy the sweetness while it lasts, because we're changing gears completely for the next chapter with the ferocious Orla!_

_As always, thank you to all those that are reviewing, it inspires me and motivates me to get these chapters out, even when I'm swamped with work. _

_Peace and love. _


	11. Chapter 8: District 4 Orla Ferraris

**Orla Ferraris**

**District 4 Female, 17  
****District 4 Justice Building**

* * *

I'm still fuming, even as I am ushered into a clean room with a tiny couch and a swivelling chair in the middle. I keep pacing, as my heart races at a thousand miles per hour, my hands twitching ever so slightly. I know the little boy whose name I already forgot is in a room identical to mine. I can't focus, I'm just so _fucking_ angry.

My parents are both cowards. Brent might act nice and approachable, but in the end, they're both just huge liars and I got played my entire life. That's the realization that hurts the most. The fact that the people who should have taken care of me my entire life were sidelined, and instead these two people who claimed to love me, to care for me…. just kept lying and lying until I had to do something _this_ drastic. It's too bad for the people who stand in my way, I know I'll win these Hunger Games. Still, it didn't have to be this way, if people were just honest with me for _once_ in my life. If my supposed parents didn't hide things under pretenses, pretexts and layers upon layers of bullshit.

Duncan and Brent enter the room simultaneously, Duncan's hand is on Brent's lower back, stabilizing, and it makes me even angrier. They were both in on this. We already started this argument, and this is just the culmination of it all.

I give them one hard look and keep pacing, largely ignoring their presence.

"Why the hell did you do that? You couldn't wait to come home and talk it out with us? You just had to throw your life away to prove a point?" Duncan starts until I shoot him a glare that makes him shut up.

"Are you really this selfish, Orla?" Eventually, anyways.

"We've raised you properly, we've done everything we could for you, and this is how you repay us?"

I glare harder.

He finally stops talking, waiting for me to grace him with an answer, obviously.

I ignore him, instead sitting down into the only chair available. I don't want to sit on the couch because I don't want to give them both the chance to encircle me, to trap me with their disgusting emotions and reasoning and pseudo-care. I want _nothing_ to do with them right now.

"This might be our last time together, stop being petulant," Duncan counters my silence, anger tinting his smooth and deep voice.

I swivel around to shout at him, looking him directly in my eyes. I've had enough of him patronizing me for something I had _every_ right to do, especially considering the circumstances.

"You _LIED_ to me. You've been _lying_ to me all this time! HOW COULD YOU?" I scream, aware of how childish it sounds and not caring in the slightest. I decide to keep going, while the rage is still boiling over.

"I knew I never belonged, but you never told me to what extent. You are both cowards. I _hate_ you, and when I win, I will have my house in the Victor's Village all to myself. I'll surround myself with people who _actually_ care about me. Who don't lie to me about my past."

Both of my fathers stand near the doorway, looking shell-shocked. Duncan slightly less heartbroken than Brent. It's always like that, with Duncan. Brent was always my favorite dad, because of that. Not-dad, I have to remind myself. They're looking at me as though I'm the one being unreasonable here, and it is driving me insane. How can they not see that it's their lies and hidden secrets that drove me to a breaking point?

"I-I mean….I mean…" I stutter, at a loss of words, which isn't a common occurrence.

"You're not even my real biological _parents_!" I decide on finally, screaming loud and clear.

"No, _really_? What clued you in?" Duncan asks, sarcasm tinting his tone.

I stomp all the way to where they both stand, like two dumb birds cocking their heads almost in synchrony. I don't like the tone he's using, I'm not _stupid_. I'm not fucking stupid, that's why I found the evidence in the first place.

"You know _what_? You're not allowed to be snarky with me right now. I'm leaving, I'll come back, and you'll have time to figure out how to explain this mess to me. Or, what's more likely to happen is that I'll discover the mystery of what the hell is going on myself," I ramble on, searching through my pockets to find the evidence to truly punctuate my point by tipping over the already-overflowing vase.

I feel the ripped edges of the paper in my pocket and yank it out, thrusting the faded photograph into my parents' faces. Not-parents, I have to remind myself.

"This…this is what I'm talking about! You knew. YOU KNEW ALL THIS TIME AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME!" I scream at the top of my lungs, tears of anger finally escaping my eyes. They didn't fall last time when we had this argument, when I found the photograph and confronted Brent and Duncan about it. My not-dads.

I found it at the very bottom of Duncan's drawer, underneath an array of files, lists and journals. I can't exactly recall why I was rummaging in the first place, not that it was important. I just saw this photograph featuring a couple, one man and one woman smiling wickedly at each other. I traced their faces with my fingers, and something inside me just came into its own. _These two people, who were they?_ I kept asking myself, as I deciphered their tattoos, memorized the dozens of piercings on their ears and faces, the colour of the man's wildly extravagant hair. As I looked over and over the inscription on the woman's hat which read "Officer General, Capitol 260704". They looked so confident, so sure of themselves. They had the same slanted dark eyes and the woman bore the straight black hair I have, while both Brent and Duncan lacked these specific features. That's when I _knew_, deep down inside.

When I had seen this photograph, by _god almighty_ did I feel betrayed, my heart had stopped.

Somehow, right now was so much worse. I had confronted them about it, asking who these people were. Turns out my real parents died fighting for the Capitol, a side demonized by most people in my dumb district, including the people I had been calling my parents ever since I can remember. Duncan and Brent hadn't even tried apologizing either, they only tried talking me down like I was some sort of low-breed dog they could tame with praise and promises. Brent had assured me they were going to tell me eventually when the time was right, but I thought and still truly believe in my heart that these lying _sons of bitches_ would have never told me anything. If I hadn't shown a bit of initiative, I would have never unearthed my past, so tightly kept under wraps. I would have never known why this feeling of not-belonging threatened to destroy me on my worst days.

"You're not my real parents and I'm going to the Capitol to know about the people who were supposed to raise me. People with whom I truly belong," I add resolutely, shaking the photograph for effect.

Brent flinches away and hugs Duncan, his expression heartbroken and disappointed, while the latter looks like he could strangle me right about now.

He advances on me, trying to rip the photograph out of my hands. He doesn't succeed, he's only got one hand free right now and I'm too fast for him. I'm too skilled for him, and I haven't even trained yet. Imagine what could be accomplished once I got access to the training facilities before the Games. That idea gives my anger a small respite, even as Duncan just seems to get more pissed off by the second.

"I can't believe I've called you _dad_ all this time," I start again, but Brent interrupts, his voice shaking.

"Because we _are_ your dads, Orla, baby, why can't you understand? We love you more than anything."

I scoff.

"Sure. Just like Tanisha did, before she denigrated me, insulted me about my choice to volunteer."

Once again, Brent physically cringes as Duncan keeps him close, almost as though he is afraid his husband will collapse without the support.

"Baby, Orla. Tanisha did no such thing. She told me afterwards that you _punched_ her, honey. You never gave us the chance to talk about that incident but …she didn't mean to insult you, she just wanted to get your approval. She didn't know this meant so much to you."

I cross my arms.

"I don't care. She said I was a fucking _nut_ job. I'm not stupid and I'm not a nut job."

I can see Duncan roll his eyes and prepare myself to verbally attack him again, even as Brent disentangles from his arms and tentatively approaches me. I see tears in his eyes and all I can feel is deep-seated repulsion and pity.

"I know you're not a nut job Orla, but you can't just _punch_ people. Especially not your friends."

"She's not my friend anymore. She was just a side-kick that was too much of a loser and I helped her become everything she never could have been without my help. And then she went and insulted me, and that's when she crossed a line," I say simply. I still bear the marks from when I punched her a few days ago. My hand was throbbing, yes, but that's when I knew I was made for these Games. I had that violence inside of me.

It was right after I found the photograph, too. I had stormed out of my house, brought a few items so I can sleep over at Tanisha's. Ever since we became friends, she let me stay over whenever I needed to escape my household. She wasn't the brightest, but she suited me just fine, right up until that point. Before settling for the night, I expressly told her that I didn't want to talk about anything. Not about my fight with my fake-parents, not about the test I had just flunked because she hadn't moved her arm like I asked her, so I could steal a glance on her answers to confirm. I didn't want to discuss anything, I just wanted sleep.

Instead of just staying quiet, of realizing I wasn't in a talkative mood, she still insisted on chattering and stammering and annoying the living _shit_ out of me. I mean, I guess I have her to thank for finally pushing me to make this leap. I was destined to volunteer for the Games, but her comment about what kind of people volunteer and the way it made my heart sting from hurt and betrayal is what truly cemented my decision.

That's why I leapt on stage, even as the escort called out another girl's name. That's why I utterly and completely disregarded our Victor's warning stare, even as I took the microphone and succinctly clarified that I was indeed the chosen tribute, that Quinn-whatever-her-stupid-name-was could go to hell because I got to the stage first. Again, I don't need to repeat myself, I'm not stupid, I know something was up between Quinn and Mags, but I didn't know what all these looks had meant and I utterly did not care.

It was a culmination of little things these past few weeks that caused this.

I snap back to reality, just as Brent puts his hand on my shoulder.

"We chose you, Orla, because you were special. You were always our baby daughter, and we love you so much," Brent whispers, even as I flinch away out of his grasp, staggering a little bit.

"If you loved me, you would have told me the truth about my heritage," I elaborate.

Duncan explodes.

"Why is your heritage so important to you, anyways? You're just a dumb seventeen-year-old who just made the worst mistake of her goddamn life and are going to pay for it! We know how influenceable you are, we didn't want you having a melodramatic episode like you always fu-sorry, freaking do."

I open my mouth, partly because I'm surprised at how savage his verbal blows are, and partly because I want to retort, but Duncan cuts me off.

"You were an orphan, we adopted you, end of the story. End of the fucking story, Orla. And now you're pretending like your issues, your deep-seated …. issues are because of _us?_ I always wanted you to grow up Orla, to see how things really are."

He pauses, and bitterly adds, "Now, you'll never have the chance."

"That's exactly why I'm leaving. You never had any faith in me, you never believed in me. I was never your flesh and blood, and you didn't care enough to tell me the truth. Goodbye, _fathers_," I finish, adopting a poisonous tone for that last word that rolls off my tongue like acid.

Brent tries to approach me again.

"Orla, we only have a few more minutes, together- "

I cut him off, because I'm frankly tired of everyone's disregard for my patience.

"If you'll excuse me, I am certain I have other people waiting to see me, and I have nothing else to say to you. Goodbye."

I practically slam the door in their faces.

I know it seems harsh, even for me, but it's the truth. Either way, when I come back, they'll have time to cool off and we can maybe start interacting civilly again.

I stop pacing because as quickly as my anger surfaced, it recedes and leaves behind only clarity. I wait for the next visitor, probably Tanisha. Or maybe Ricotta and Jane, from school. Perhaps even my teachers, Sandra and Coral. That's why I quickly escorted my not-parents out of the room, right? Because I thought I'd have quite a bit of people coming to see me?

_Is that what I thought?_ I question myself, even as the silence becomes unsettling.

Surely, my volunteering has earned me some bravery points, and the girl I volunteered for can at least have the decency to come say thank you.

I wait, and there's no one.

I don't really care, they were probably all just processing what had happened, and I'd receive compensation for that during the Games. They'll probably rally together and raise money for me, since, let's be real, that little shrimp of a district partner won't be making waves.

The Peacekeepers come to fetch me, and I stand up proudly, keeping my head up high, even as I exit the room. I see commotion at the other end of the hall, a small animal being kicked by a huge Peacekeeper and the little boy, the shrimp, struggling in his arms.

What a pathetic spectacle, I think to myself, and my guard seems to agree with me. He boards me on the train, and I nod, silently thanking him for the courtesy. He doesn't seem to notice but as I've mentioned, I don't really care. I can get by without the constant attention of some pathetic Peacekeeper for whom it is an honour to escort the likes of me on a train.

When I win the Games, I can already imagine him regaling his family with stories of how he helped Orla Ferraris board the train that led her to her Victory. He'd even maybe come to the Victor's village, to ask for a photograph, but I've already forgotten his face, let alone his name.

I see my district partner being ushered in, and a sad little child waving at him from the other side of the train, his or her red hair waving in the wind.

Squint? Score? I forget his name. I decide on calling him shrimp, for now, at least in my head.

Shrimp is looking horrified and I almost scoff at him, before remembering that now is not the time to be antagonistic. There will be a ton of time for that in the arena.

He looks at me, his eyes welling with tears. I'm surprised, because it doesn't look like any of them have spilled over. That's interesting for someone who looks twelve or thirteen years old. They're usually the criers.

I try to strike up conversation.

"So, is anyone going to miss you back home?"

"Yeah," he replies sheepishly.

"So was that your girlfriend with the red hair, waving at you? Boyfriend?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"No, they're uh…they're my best friend. They're not a girl or a boy, they're non-binary, I guess," he explains and I'm already pretty bored.

"Cool. Cool cool cool," I repeat, drumming my fingers on the window edge, just as the train springs to life, the engines revving. I heard the Capitol will be investing in newer cleaner technology for our railway system, since pollution is part of why the old world crumbled. I don't really know. It's just something I remember Tanisha saying. Not that I mind or care. If they want to create faster and more efficient machines, it's fine by me, but this one is already top-notch.

I see Mags enter, and immediately stand up.

"Hi," I venture. "I'm Orla Ferraris, and I'm seventeen."

Mags doesn't look happy, but she doesn't look particularly upset, so I take that as a good sign.

"Yeah I know, heard it from your volunteering."

Her reply rubs me the wrong way, though, but I swallow my pride.

"Mhm…so I was thinking, maybe we can start immediately talking strategy, and if uh….he wants to participate, we can do that too."

Mags stares at me, and drags her hand over her face. If I didn't know any better, I'd think it's in exasperation.

"Hold up for just one minute. This is Scout, he's thirteen, and he will be participating in making the decisions with the two of us, for what we're focusing on. Second, why did you volunteer, exactly?"

I pause. I have my own motivations and I don't really want to be wasting my time talking them over, because, _hello,_ we've got strategy to think of and I also need to find time to start buttering up the escort to help me with my quest for finding out the identity of my parents…

But Mags won this contest once, so I should listen to her. Answer her truthfully, because I need to stay on her good side.

"I volunteered because I wanted to find out more about my parents. My real parents, from the Capitol. They fought the rebels, apparently. I also wanted to show my friends I could do it and that I wasn't crazy. I know I can win," I conclude confidently.

"Okay. Uh…I guess that's a good reason," Mags responds, but her face says otherwise.

"I guess you weren't in on the fact that I already _had_ a trained volunteer set up for this gig?" she elaborates.

"No, I didn't. I guess that's what Quinn was so upset about. Don't worry about her Mags, she's harmless and I can do more damage than she can," I console her.

"Sure. Considering she's trained for the past year and a half. But I'm guessing you have something more to offer," the older woman says, leaning in towards me and narrowing her eyes. I don't like how closely she resembles Duncan right this second, so I become defensive.

"Excuse me, I've fought before, and you'll see when we start training, I'll probably have the most skills out of all of the Careers!"

With that, I storm away because I am tired of Mags' judgemental bullshit, the teary-eyed expression Shrimp-Scout-whatever seems to permanently wear on his tiny little stupid face and the whining of the engines as we speed away from District 4.

I bump into our escort, and politely ask where my room is.

"Your room is on the left, right near my own," he responds, smiling politely back. Now _here's_ one reasonable human being I can connect with.

"Thank you," I answer sweetly, just as I close my door and take in my surroundings. Time to get to figuring out this mystery with my parents, all the while ensuring my survival.

I have a feeling it'll go smoothly.

* * *

_Notes: Orla from District 4 everybody! I don't think I've ever written anyone this delusional. Like ever. That being said, this is going to be fun! Let me know what you thought of her.  
Since I wrote all of the inner districts, do you have any idea on whether or not the Careers will be a thing this year? Will Mags successfully push for D4 to join the alliance or will her tributes (I'm looking at you Orla, because Scout doesn't really have a chance, does he) be rejected once again? Can Orla's superiority complex get any more annoying? _

_Thank you to everyone reviewing. Let's bump up that number even higher, I crave reviews! Next up, District 5 which is going to bring on its own set of shenanigans. _

_Peace and love. _


	12. Chapter 9: District 5 Andrew Vickens

**Andrew Vickens **

**District 5 Male, 18  
****Train Rides**

* * *

I'm sitting in my room, trying to process what exactly had just transpired.

For the past four years, all I had known were the four walls of my bedroom, the small kitchen I could hobble to, the familiar setting of our living room. The common backyard for our islet of homes, when I got lucky, and my parents decided I needed some sunshine. Once a year, I attended the required Reaping, thus far uneventful.

Until this year, _obviously_, since I'm sitting in a luxurious suite which my family could have never afforded, not in a million years. In a train on my way to my most-probable demise, about two-hundred miles away from District 5, but that's just a tiny detail I can easily overlook. I've been overlooking a lot of things lately.

The worst part is that I'm not even all that upset by this turn of events. I'm fairly certain that most of the other tributes' reactions range from absolute dread and terror to exultation, but I'm just here, kind-of indifferent to it all. I know it's hopeless, just like the rest of my life, so why bother making a scene, right?

I know that I'm probably the oldest tribute here. I mean, I'm almost nineteen. If I hadn't been reaped, I would have spent the rest of my days as a useless jobless asshole in my parents' house, until they died, and then I'd live on some more before getting evicted and dying on the streets. That's how I also know, objectively, that I have virtually no chance in the Hunger Games. The reaping is only another problem on the immense pile-up that has been accumulating for years.

All I can think of right now isn't my inevitable death, nor the interviews and training and scores which, frankly, I couldn't give less of a crap about if I tried. All I can think of is how much I miss my parents, especially my mom. I know they sheltered me, hid me away but I know deep down, this will hurt them the most. They really did love me, even when no one else did.

I lost my sight four years ago and that's when my life went completely off the rails. I can't see, I can't fucking _see_ and that's all that sticks with me as my ears pick up all the unfamiliar sounds which I haven't grown accustomed to yet. The arena is no place for the disabled, that much I've understood from years of watching the Games.

Feeling useless is a something I've grown accustomed to in the years since my accident. It still stings though, every time I'm reminded of it. This clusterfuck of a situation is no different.

One of the main getaways from my current situation is the following: A) Life is a bitch and isn't fair. If it was fair, I wouldn't have been electrocuted until my eyes fried like poached eggs. Literally like eggs, because now they're cloudy, disgusting, and I can't see anything. It's always darkness for me now, even though I can still feel these two useless orbs inside my skull. Sometimes I just want to claw them out, save everyone the trouble of flinching away. They still move, you know, my eyes. They move instinctively towards noises, towards other stimuli but that makes no difference.

My vision is gone and it's not coming back.

A secondary getaway, B), is that I'm beyond fucked. I've seen disabled tributes before, even prior to losing my sight, before my mom had to narrate everything that was happening on screen. People missing limbs, mentally disabled kids, deaf or mute ones. There were a lot of those, especially towards the beginning, since the war had taken a toll of everyone, not only the adults who participated first-hand in it.

The bottom line was that a cripple never won the Games.

Starting out with such a disadvantage…it's not something _anyone_ can overcome. I mean, I'm not counting Momo here, because that guy…well, everyone knows his victory was a fluke.

And anyways, I'm nothing like Momo, for better or for worse. When I was younger, I've seen some kids in the district who were born blind due to some deficiency or another, and those guys… let's just say they're as close to superheroes as you can get. They've got that almost-superhuman sense of hearing, whereas I lost my sight too late in my development to actually get that kind of advantage.

I mean, in four years, a guy _adapts_, no doubt about that. But there's nothing superhuman about it. No superspeed or super-heightened reflexes that might save me from an arrow flying my way.

I can hear every engine jolt, almost feeling the vibrations in my fingertips which are splayed on the edge of the mahogany frame of my bed. I hear the voices behind my door, my mentor's optimistic tone overshadowing our escort's sardonic commentary.

Contrarily to the escort, Triss has been nothing but nice to us both, me and my district partner Mara.

I feel kind of bad for the guy. He won last year, lost his legs in the process, but still maintained this absolutely infectious optimism. It's really too bad he got stuck with the two of us for his first year of mentoring. I mean, the guy _literally_ guided me to my room, even though I told him repeatedly I could manage on my own.

He told me he wanted to get to his sleeping quarters and that I'd be doing _him_ a favor by helping him roll his wheelchair down the hall, while getting to my room. Two birds with one stone, he said. The truth is that his room is nowhere near mine. I heard him having to roll himself all on his own towards the beginning of the hall, and while it's a touching gesture, I don't want to be pitied or babied or whatever else he's doing.

I keep straining my ears, trying to decipher what other sounds in this locomotive machine I can discern. The hum, the constant pumping and the squeaking of the floor melt together and I sit there with my eyelids closed, in harmony with it all.

This isolation is nothing novel, it's the interactions with other people, people who aren't my parents, that innerve me. It's been so long since I've had genuine human contact with anyone and on one hand, it feels almost-nice to be out of the blanket of the miserable closed-off world I've wrapped myself in. On the other hand, it's alien, as though I've forgotten how to act normally, how to hold a conversation.

It doesn't help that I am beyond self-conscious about the way my face looks now. The way the burn-marks never went away, the bumpiness of my skin where the electricity left tree-like patterns jumping out at me even though I can't see it.

When I was rushed to the hospital, the doctors had been astounded that I was alive at all. Eye injuries subsequent to high-tension electricity were extremely uncommon, because the person rarely ever lived to tell the tale. Fried eyeballs were almost-always synonymous to other cooked organs, which, simply put, meant death. Damage in both eyes, elevated corneal density and an opaque vitreous humour which could not be reversed by anything but the most specialized surgeries… now that was something of a medical marvel. In the most gruesome of ways.

I learned all of this, when I had woken up from a coma just a week after the accident. I sensed my mother in the chair next to my cot, asking her in a panic why the world was black around me. Why my entire face felt like it was on fire.

She explained to me my diagnosis, the one I keep replaying in my head at any given opportunity now. All I could muster was a weak "I see".

That made her cry, I recall, because I wouldn't be seeing anything for the rest of my life. The irony of it was too much for her, it seemed. It all led to this, though. This Reaping.

Now I'm here, hiding in my room. The extreme change of circumstances and scenery is disorienting, but that's not the end of the story. It's also the fact that I've been reaped alongside Mara Griffith.

I had to muster all my courage not to vomit right then and there, as her name was called. I heard the whispers, the sighs, the exclamations of surprise from the entire district. After all, as far as they were concerned, Andrew Vickens was a hidden-away recluse, a person that no longer belonged to the same plane of existence that they did. And yet I was there on stage, a reminder of a horrible accident which claimed the lives of many workers in our most successful powerplant. A reminder of grief that would finally be erased from their lives.

The fact is that when Mara Griffith was called up with me, the entire district cheered. They weren't overtly euphoric, but I could almost-hear the smiles on people's faces as they watched Mara climb those steps to stand next to me. That was the worst part.

It was senseless and horrible, but they all thought this was some perverse justice being served. The victim and the perpetrator going into the Games would certainly spice things up, no doubt about it. After all, the people of District 5 needed someone to blame and Mara was the perfect scapegoat after she had been the cause of her father's negligence, which cost his own life as well as the lives of dozens of honest workers. I'm fuzzy on the details, not going to lie. I wish I had been told more than I was, because I know my parents kept the meat of it away from me.

That's why a part of me wants to go see Mara, talk to her. I had no one to _process _this accident with, not even my parents who wanted to forget everything that had to do with my disability and move on. The thing they didn't understand is that talking, venting, _communicating_ is what would have gotten me through the hardships I had to suffer. I can't fucking _see_ anything and just moving on wasn't really an option, no matter how much I wanted to.

Denial didn't do shit for me, and I understand that clearly now.

Talking and listening… I was denied that essential part of healing, and maybe that's why I feel almost at peace with dying, now. The problem is that I am stuck here, with a person whose company I've been yearning for all these years. The only person to truly understand how broken I feel, because she lost a great deal in that accident too. I want to talk to Mara, to settle things, but talking, truly _talking_… I haven't had to opportunity to do that in such a long time that I forgot how to.

Mara had been my best friend, four years ago. I know for a fact I would have forgiven her for whatever happened, if only we had had the chance to discuss it and heal together. The truth is that I haven't seen or heard from her ever since. Knowing she was so close on stage with me, silent, emitting no sound as I could feel the sneering and derision from the crowd assaulting her in waves was a greater shock than getting reaped myself.

The injustice of it all threatens to drown me. What were the odds of this happening? I mean, two people who knew each other so intimately, whose lives were intricately intertwined by tragedy and forced apart by circumstance, reaped together? I'm sure that if I bothered to calculate it, the odds would be close-to-nil.

A part of my brain thinks the reaping was rigged, but I can't afford to think like that anymore. The task at hand, now, is to talk to Mara. To find out what happened between us, why our friendship disappeared along with my sight. I don't want to die feeling betrayed like this.

I know that I should get up soon, to go eat something and at least attempt to talk to Triss about strategy and come up with ideas for the Games. I also know that it's all futile, but that kind of nihilistic thought process never got me anywhere.

I get up, walk to the door, my feet sinking into the foamy and soft carpet on the ground. I make my way to the dining area, where I can feel two people are sitting.

"Hi Andrew," Triss says, his wheelchair squeaking as he repositions himself. "I'm glad you came to join us, food is being served."

I nod, plastering a smile on my face. The tension in the room is tangible.

"Thanks, I was getting hungry. Is Mara here?" I ask, my voice shaking imperceptibly. They probably don't even notice, but I do.

"She's actually still in her room, probably getting accustomed to her surroundings. I sure did when I came here last year," Triss observes. The escort's here then. Unusually silent, probably observing me, trying to figure out just how weak I'll prove to be.

"I'll bring her some food, and I'll be right back," I decide, and Triss hands me a plate full of cheeses, grapes, chocolate candies, veggies and things I can't really put my finger on. It smells good though, and I don't want to start touching everything on Mara's plate to confirm what it is.

"I took the liberty to pile some food I thought you would both like. Whenever you're ready, I'd like for the two of you to come here so we can watch the recaps and start planning your angles. Never too early to plan angles," Triss adds, and I can imagine the genuine grin on his face.

_This guy is too considerate_, I think to myself. He's always one step ahead of everyone, and it's as though he can read my mind. If I'm being completely honest, it's almost disconcerting and creepy. I guess that's why he won last year, because the guy _sounds_ completely harmless.

Either way, I take the plate, and make my way to the hallway.

"Mara's door is the one to the immediate right," Triss calls after me. I already knew that, though, but I still send a smile his way, which I hope he catches. I outstretch my hand and tentatively feel the walls. I'm almost there and I'm nervous, finding my throat completely dry. I don't know how former best friend reunions are supposed to go, but I'm fairly sure these aren't the ideal circumstances, regardless. It'll have to do.

At least I've got a plate full of food. Can't ever go wrong with that.

I knock on Mara's door.

"Mara? It's….uh…Andrew. Your district partner."

No response.

"Uh…can I come in please?"

I hear shifting in the room. I push my hand on the door, and hear a sudden click on the other side of the door.

"Mara, I know you locked the door, but we should talk."

The bed creeks, on the other side, and I know she's retreated back into her safe-haven. I really need to talk to her though, so I don't relent.

"Mara I swear to god, if I'm able to stand here with a plate full of fucking food, then you can at least have to courtesy to take it from me. I really _just_ want to talk. I promise it won't be weird," I say, louder, so she can hear that I'm getting impatient. It's definitely going to be weird, but I omit that. Right now, I just need her to open the door.

"Leave me alone, Vickens!"

A sign of life! I take that as a step in the right direction, even if she just politely told me to fuck off.

"Fine, but we need to talk eventually. I'm setting this food plate on the ground and I'm leaving. You can come take it."

I make a show out of settling the plate at the foot of her door, mimicking steps withdrawing towards my room. I stop breathing, as I press myself against the wall, near her door. Two minutes pass, and I hear small steps approaching the locked door, hesitantly.

The door opens, and I step right in front of where the doorframe is supposed to be, crossing my arms. I pull my left hand out quickly, and stop Mara from slamming the door into my face.

"What the fuck, Vickens, I told you to leave me alone!"

Her voice sounds upset. Whatever, I've been upset all these years and I need this cleared up. She'll have to just deal with it right now.

"Long time no see, Mara. How've you been?" I ask instead. I know it sounds unpleasant and intentionally mean, but this is necessary. We can't both just run away from the truth days before we're slaughtered. If she wants to avoid me, fine, but I need an explanation. I need to know.

She retreats to the edge of her room, and I try to imagine how she'd look like now.

"Look, I know this _is shitty_, but I just wanted to tell you that I don't blame you for what happened. What actually sucks balls is the fact that you literally avoided me for four fucking years. You didn't bother to come and see me at the hospital. At first, I thought you straight-up died, but nope."

"It's not _like_ that, Vickens, get out!" she shouts, but she sounds so unsure and defeated that I persist.

"You know I came to your old house, right? At least ten times, before I stopped. I literally had to go around the district looking like some sort of burnt mutant, trying to find you. To talk to you about what happened."

"Stop that, please _stop_, Vickens. I just want to be left alone right now."

"You know I said that too, after I realized you were hiding from me? That I wanted to be left alone? Yeah, well guess what. I realize now that that's a huge pile of bullshit, and you're full of it."

I am starting to get angry, and that's not what this is about. I need to get back on track. I need to calm down.

"Mara, you were my best friend and we're about to die. We need to talk this out. I just need my best friend again, so please, for the love of god, eat your fucking cheese and whatever else is on your plate and come watch the recaps."

I step out of the room and the door is slammed three inches away from my nose.

I make it back to the common area, and I can feel Triss' eyes on me.

I start shovelling food into my mouth, in order to avoid conversation and to distract myself from what just transpired.

I talked to Mara Griffith.

I talked to the girl who was my best friend and whose father caused my blindness. I am about five days away from dying. Now that my thoughts are no longer a jumbled mess, I know that what I've done is right. If Mara is anything like she used to be, she'll come see me when she's ready. I just needed to make that first leap.

"Triss…will you be able to talk me through the recaps? Let me know if there's any especially sexy tributes I need to look out for," I remark quietly, but Triss laughs like I've made the joke of the century.

"Will do, Andrew!"

When I finish eating, I lead myself to the couch under Triss' instructions and sit in front of the television.

"It's the smart thing to do," Triss says after a while.

"What's the smart thing to do?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Clear up any bad blood between you two. It's good that you know each other. You'll need her, if you want to survive," he clarifies.

"There's no bad blood between us. She just _thinks_ there is," I sigh, facepalming and closing my eyelids.

I hear footsteps and someone indents the couch at the farthest end away from me.

"The first volunteer, Ambrox Linden, is tall, strong-looking. He's blond and has blue eyes, but they're cold, scary and very resolute. We'll have to look out for him," Mara remarks with an even, if not slightly antagonistic, tone and I can't help but smile. Baby steps, but I'm sure by the end of our stay at the Capitol, we'll both get the peace we long for.

And maybe, _maybe_ I'll have my friend back.

* * *

_Notes: Wheeew this was …different? It's kind of funny that my eyes are going through some shit and this blind character's chapter just coincidentally shows up. Writing's all about that catharsis. Here's to comparing eyeballs to fried eggs (erase that image out of my brain right this instant!). _

_What did you think of Andy from District 5? Do you think he has a chance in the Games or are you writing him off as a bloodbath, as he has evidently done with himself? Next chapter, we will discover what's up exactly with the mysterious Mara Griffith, while enjoying a quick televised recap of the Reapings. _

_Once again, thank you for the reviews._

_Peace and love. _


	13. Chapter 10: District 5 Mara Griffith

**Mara Griffith **

**District 5 Female, 17  
****Train Rides**

* * *

We're watching the recaps and I find myself talking more than I have in the past four years of my life combined. It doesn't come easy, but I know Triss expects it of me and Andy…. Andrew Vickens, he needs this. And it's all killing me inside, a little bit, but I just describe the people on the television screen, on autopilot.

"Cira Dupont, another eighteen-year old. She's shorter than the first guy, stockier, but she's elegant-looking."

"There's something up with her. Her eyes…they're twitchy. Jazz doesn't usually bring twitchy tributes as far as I can remember," Triss adds, by way of commentary.

The next tribute is a skinny but menacing-looking boy from District 2, who knocks another much larger guy out. He looks a little bit like Andrew and I, in a distant manner, but I can practically feel the violence seeping through his every pore.

"Luther Szeto, eighteen, looks like a psychopath and his mentor clearly isn't happy."

"Ouh spicy. Sounds like drama," Andy adds, helpfully. Andrew, I correct myself. It's Andrew Vickens now.

"Seeva Andino, also eighteen, no surprise there. She looks like the calmest of the bunch, so far. She is big, bigger than her partner, and she's looking at him wearily. She's clearly the brawn of the bunch," I summarize, as I watch the girl get on stage with a spring to her step and an inner determination shining in her dark eyes.

Triss pauses the broadcast.

"So, these are the Careers. They all look competent enough. I'd say the weakest link is the D1 girl. She looks a little unstable, but it might be an act. On a completely different note, I heard Mags is heavily lobbying for District 4 to be included in their exclusive alliance, but we'll see."

The program focuses now on the District 3 tributes.

"Cassius Fleur, fifteen but looks slightly younger than his age. Lanky. Kid's got hair for days."

I pause, because there's something exciting going on on-screen, and I try to understand what it is.

"He's reaching out to someone, his older brother maybe, and he's muttering something under his breath," I continue.

Triss sighs. "Doesn't look like a threat but that's what everyone said about Pulse. He won at fifteen so let's not count him out yet."

There's further commotion when a tall, dark and extremely skinny girl volunteers.

"Salamandra Mitch, seventeen. She looks tough. She's saying something to Cassius, but he seems really scared of her. "

"That's odd," Triss adds. "District 3 rarely has volunteers, but she seems like a wildcard. She looks like Eli's archetype too, so I'd be _really_ careful with her. She seems proud to be there, and that's always dangerous."

The screen changes yet again, projecting the clean square of District 4.

"Scout Trinian, thirteen. Looks small for his age. He's not crying though, and he looks more put-together than the boy from Three. Probably just shocked, but bonus points for keeping it together. Doesn't look like a threat," I conclude, looking at Triss for approval.

He silently agrees with me.

An angry-looking girl bursts out of the seventeen-year-old section, rushing on-stage even as another muscular dark-skinned girl tries to break free from the crowd to get onto the podium before her.

"Another volunteer, Orla Ferraris, seventeen. I know a disaster when I see one," I comment, rolling my eyes as she ostentatiously shuts that other girl's claim as a volunteer.

"I'm not getting good vibes from her," Triss says while rubbing his chin. "Could be an airhead, but she definitely comes from a privileged part of town. She might have some secret training under her sleeve. We'll have to wait and see."

Andrew interjects, "She sounded pissed off. Any idea why?"

I shrug. "No idea. Girl seems like she's got a bag of cats instead of a brain. As Triss said, we'll have to wait and see."

Andrew nods pensively.

"That's us," I continue quietly, wishing Triss would speed up the broadcast.

Andrew looks resigned as he makes his way up the steps of the podium. If it wasn't for his pale clouded and unseeing eyes, he would have looked like any other boy, accepting his fate quietly with dignity. I look downright insane, smiling, crying silently and shaking like a leaf. That demented smile… I wanted to die so bad in that moment. I was so _happy_ my suffering was finally coming to an end. I'm not really sure I want to end my life, anymore.

It's funny how things change in an instant, like that.

It's a little horrifying. My eyes, one light gray and the other a deep dark brown looking on gleefully as the crowd laughs at my perceived misfortune, while I want to scream at them how glad I am they finally picked me. That I was moved to tears because of the sheer joy of it all. That I'm finally going to pay for the torment I've caused. The dark circles under my eyes makes me look haggard and tired, and the white streak in my hair frames my face awkwardly. I look like I'm as good as dead already. Like I'm _roadkill_.

Triss picks up on my discomfort almost immediately.

"You both look like quite the pair. We can spin a really cool narrative, and with your whole _aesthetic _going on," he gestures at his eyes for clarification, "I think we can pull something off."

I shudder and he notices.

"I'm sorry, I know it sounds cold, but you're both grown-ups and I'm telling you how it is. I'm telling you that you have a chance, the two of you. Especially with this rich history together," he adds, looking at Andrew who nods imperceptibly.

I don't want fucking allies, I don't want anyone coming close to me. I stay quiet though.

A younger boy appears on screen.

"Roizer Loudon, fourteen. He's clutching something in his hand."

I squint, and I see a notebook of sorts that he has a vice-grip on, as he climbs the stairs. Another lanky boy tries to volunteer for him, but Roizer stops him.

"Seems like a sweet kid, if not a little on the awkward side," Triss says. "Little guy doesn't seem all _there_, but refusing to get volunteered for is definitely going to get him sponsors."

"Looks mature," I add, for a lack of a better descriptor.

"Looks introverted as hell, to a point where I doubt he'll score any allies. I don't think he's worth your time," Triss counters, and ouch, that's _harsh_, but he's probably right.

The girl that comes on stage next looks like someone wrung her forcefully through a meat processor.

"Daisy Jackson, fifteen, looks somewhere between twenty and sixty," I announce, and both Andrew and Triss smirk.

"She's another volunteer, but there's _clearly_ something wrong with her. She hissed at the crowd which is…concerning," I say, keeping in mind what most people must think of me, from my own reaping. The girl takes the microphone in a spasmodic manner and screams into it that she just wants to die, repeatedly, as the crowd looks on, hollow-eyed. I share the sentiment, but she just comes off as manic. I really hope I didn't look that bad.

"She looks sick," Triss adds. "She's either an addict or she's got some sort of disease and she's clearly desperate. Don't underestimate her."

Understatement of the century.

"District 7, Logan …" I pause, finding his last name difficult to pronounce. "Arte-fi…Arteficavitch, aged fifteen." The kid looks like the living hell was scared out of him.

"He doesn't look too good," Triss highlights, as Logan's hands start shaking violently and he walks up the stairs, his eyes as big as saucers. Even when he reaches the escort, the terror doesn't subside in his feature. There's not an ounce of resignation in this guy's face, only absolutely unmitigated horror.

And then a girl parts the sea of people in front of her, walking assuredly onto stage. There's actual genuine cheering from the crowd.

"Morgana Foster, eighteen. Looks as ready as she'll ever be, calm and collected," I comment. "Dark hair, fit, very pretty," I add, for Andrew's benefit. A ghost of a smile graces his lips.

"The girls are really doubling down on the volunteering thing," Triss remarks. "It's starting to get a little unoriginal. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to join the Career alliance. She seems put together and has a clear goal in mind, so I'd see them actually taking her in."

"District Eight with Jean Taylor, sixteen. Guy looks cracked. His eyes are jumping all over the place, but he's smiling, so good for him I guess." Two adults who I'm guessing are his parents are hysterically screaming his name, but he isn't letting it bother him.

"He's clearly trying to act like this isn't phasing him, but he's scared out of his mind. Kind of reminds me of myself, and you can see for yourselves how that worked out for the tributes in my Games," Triss says darkly. "I don't need to tell you I don't like this guy."

A strong-looking girl is reaped, and she glares at everyone while she climbs the steps with urgency.

"Bexley Ward, seventeen, looks older. She's tough too, but she keeps searching the crowd for someone. Might be a relative or a child."

Some younger kid starts running towards the stage, but Bexley takes the mic gruffly from the escort and yells "sit the _fuck_ down, Renzo." The kid stops in his tracks, looking petrified. There's a murmur going through the crowd and from that I gather she's well-liked throughout the district. The Peacekeepers look confused, which I tell Triss.

"I don't what that's about, let's keep watching," he replies, eager to see the next set of tributes.

District 9 offers another volunteer, this time a male.

Triss takes over for me. "Geoff Windsor, sixteen, blond, average height, looks moderately pissed off. He's got that _what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do_ look on his face, so I'm guessing this wasn't a planned decision. These guys usually tend to be delusional and a bit of a firecracker. He looks like an orphan."

Triss pauses when he sees me glaring at him. "What, it's true, orphans have a certain vibe to them, _sorry_."

I correct him. "He _looks_ like someone living on the streets, so he might have picked up some handy skills. Use of weaponry shouldn't be overlooked."

Triss nods, grinning. "Exactly what I was going to say."

"The next girl is small, button nose and her skin is sun-burnt. She probably works in the fields. Mona Tillery, thirteen. She looks terrified, classic helpless little girl," I squint at the screen, seeing a stir in the eighteen-year olds section, the camera picking up on it immediately.

Mona looks that way too, narrowing her eyes in silent plea. Two identical-looking girls murmur, but keep their hands at their sides. Adults and children alike look upset at Mona being reaped.

"I wouldn't say helpless," Triss retorts, and at second glance, from the girl's stance and eyes, she has some bite to her.

District 10 has two strong tributes reaped.

"Valentino Ricci, eighteen, tall muscular dark-haired guy. Has the calmest facial expression I've seen so far, which means he's bullshitting. He smiles a little bit at the end too, so either the man is a psychopath and will rip our faces off, or he's confident in his chances," I finish.

A fifteen-year old girl named Adderyn Klossner is reaped, and I have to refrain from laughing at how everyone physically shrinks back under her murderous gaze. As she stomps towards the stage if I read her lips correctly, she mutters "Fuck, fuck fucking fuck" punctuating every stair with yet another "fuck".

"She's a feisty one," I contribute, as Triss describes how she looks to Andrew. She has curly hair and caramel skin and her eyes are spewing fire and daggers and whatever else could be considered terrifying.

"The girl doesn't look nearly as scared as she should be. I'd be careful with her," I admit, getting nods from Triss and Andrew.

District 11 yields an odd pair.

"Tyree, no family name. Twelve years old. There's something wrong with him," I say hesitantly. The boy is tiny.

"What the fuck, he volunteered?" Triss asks, incredulous.

The little boy doesn't even say a word, he just makes it on stage quietly and places himself where the designated male tribute would go. The escort is confused out of her mind, and when she hands him the microphone, he quietly says his name.

Everyone is clearly disturbed by this episode, and the escort selects a tough-looking girl.

"Jessamine Law, sixteen. Very skinny, wiry, dark brown hair and wide eyes. She clearly looks surprised but she's keeping it under control."

"She almost looks relieved," Triss notices. He's really good at reading people, and he's right. For one micro-second, she looks like a huge weight was taken off her shoulders, but she reigns that in almost-immediately, looking surprised and crushed all at the same time. I've rarely seen that many conflicting emotions pass as quickly on a person's face.

Tyree refuses to take her hand as the crowd claps half-heartedly.

"Onto the last district," Triss sighs.

"Abel Collingwood, sixteen. The boy looks mature for his age, strong-looking, contrarily to the tributes we've seen from Twelve recently."

Triss scratches his chin. "Is it just me, or the kid seems almost excited about this?"

I disagree. "I wouldn't say excited. I'd say relieved? It's weird, I can't quite figure out his deal. He looks half-dead already, emotionally speaking."

Triss agrees with me, nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah, I can't tell you right off the bat what this guy is going to be like. You'll have to keep an eye on him though. Might be a potential ally, or a strong enemy. People don't expect strength from District 12, and they've got a fighter here."

"Sparkle Aire, eighteen," I say finally, feeling out that name on my tongue. The girl is uncharacteristically blond, beautiful, although her features are marred by an annoyed expression which doesn't suit her.

"Definitely not native to District 12, with that name," Triss echoes exactly what I'm thinking.

"Sounds like she's from the Capitol, or more likely, District 1," Andrew muses, and I'm guessing his assumption is correct.

"Both tributes from Twelve are peculiar," Triss summarizes, turning off the sound on the television in order to not distract us from what he's saying.

"Apart from the Careers, from what I understood, we have to watch out for the girl from Three, the female volunteer from Seven, the boy from Ten and maybe the boy from Twelve. There's others that could have some secret hidden talents, but those are the ones that physically display the most prowess."

Triss agrees, wearily eyeing the television flat screen. "Yeah, I'd say those are the primary threats, although you never know. Don't disregard anyone."

"We've got our fair share of weirdos, though," Andrew remarks, smiling at me. "From what I could hear, that District 6 girl, Daisy, she could probably chew someone's ear off. Didn't seem all there. That little boy too, could barely hear him at all, but he volunteered so he must have something going for him."

Andrew pauses, and sighs. "Or maybe he's got nothing going for him at all."

Suddenly, now that the curiosity has been satiated, I find myself wondering off in my own thoughts while Triss and Andrew joke around quietly. I feel like I don't belong. Like I shouldn't be here.

As Triss asks Andrew about his thoughts on the tributes, potential alliances and the like, I can't stop myself from thinking back to my goodbyes. To my best friend Scorpius and to our complicated relationship that just became infinitely more complicated. He barged in, right after my uncle Ron told me what a good riddance my reaping was. I hadn't even had the power to object, I just stood there like a complete idiot. _I should have left you to rot in the hospital like the roadkill that you are,_ he said, alluding to my white streak amidst a full head of black hair. _See you in hell skunk girl _were the last words he spat at me. All I could think of was that hell would be nice, for a change, and with any luck, I'd get there sooner rather than later while he still had a couple of years to go until his liver failed from his chronic alcoholism. After Ron left, stinking of liquor and sweat, Scorpius ran in. He hugged me tenderly, and I clung to him because I knew the last of my humanity, of my dignity, would remain here with him. He admitted to me the most important thing of all.

"I love you Mara, I've loved you for so long," he said, and I imperceptibly smile at the memory alone. I loved him too, I realized, just as we were separated by Peacekeepers. It was too goddamn late to realize it, but I loved him. I wasn't going to die unloved, which was the most beautiful realization. A realization which lasted only for a moment, overshadowed by my desire to keep living, because Scorpius _loved me_. To make this situation infinitely worse, I was ripped away from the one good thing I didn't realize I had, and now I am most certainly going to die.

It's too fucking much, sometimes.

I abruptly stand up, and announce that I'm going back to my room.

I quickly walk away without waiting for anyone's approval, just as the emotions resurface and tears spring to my eyes. I don't want them to see how much of an emotional wreck I am.

"Hey Mara, wait up…"

I don't wait up. In fact, I almost run out.

I hate myself, I hate everything, I hate the scars I bear from the accident, and I hate that no one here seems to despise me for it. Andrew should. He has every right to, and yet he's seeking me out as though talking will solve _anything_. It won't give me back my fucking parents. It won't stop me from making the accident at the powerplant happen. It won't give me back my old life. It won't let me avoid a full four years of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of my uncle Ron who never liked me and only tried to diminish me in any way he could.

I hate my stupid hair, I hate the nickname my uncle gave me because of it. Skunk girl, he called me, even as he came to say goodbye. You're good-for-nothing _roadkill_, he said. These words keep clattering in my head even as I try my best to tune them out. I hate that I might never see Scorpius again, just as he finally worked up the courage to tell me the truth about his feelings.

"Vickens, I can't do this. I did the stupid recap, now I want to be left alone," I stammer, aware of how selfish it is to be pushing him away like this. He doesn't _like_ me, though. He has no reason to.

"Okay, but I thought we were just starting to …you know, reunite? I don't know. I just want to talk about that accident, Mara. I want to know how your life's been. You were my best friend."

The tears in my eyes spring up. He can't see them. That's good. Scorpius is my best friend, not Andrew. He can probably tell my voice is trembling like crazy though.

"I've been fucking bullied, threatened to be killed for what I've done. It _fucking_ sucks. I just wanted to die in peace, by myself and you can't even afford me that luxury."

I swallow the fact that maybe I'm reconsidering everything.

"Dude, I've literally been quarantined as though I'm a fucking leper or something. No one wanted to see my face, and if truth be told, it really _sucks_ too," Andy admits, even though his tone is still light.

I hum in agreement. Yeah. It must have been horrible, and it was all my fault.

"Scorpius…"

Andy interrupts me. "Scorpius? Scorpius who? Even his name sounds angsty and evil and _misunderstood_."

He waves his hands around for emphasis. "So edgy. The _ultimate_ teenage fantasy."

I scowl.

"I'm just joking. I remember Scorpius just fine and he was a sleezy, annoying, fact-checking asshole who only hung around because he had the biggest crush on you."

I choke.

"Oh don't act so surprised, Mara."

"I'm _not_ surprised," I say bitterly. "We had our…_moment_. At the goodbyes. That's why I don't want to die anymore. Not completely."

"Ouh, how romantic," Andy counters, his voice pitched high, waving his hands around some more. I swat at them.

Having Andy make fun of me, me swatting at him in annoyance... it's almost easy to forget the guilt that turned me into a husk of the human being he knew four years ago.

"Well, it's none of my business Mara, but I never liked Scorpius, as a matter of fact," Andy adds, just as I go into my room. As he says his name, I can't help but superimpose Scorpius' beautiful green eyes on Andy's milky unseeing ones.

I'm so fucked up.

I close the door and start hyperventilating. I don't even know why, I can't put my finger on it. But one second I'm outside and the next I'm near the shower, sobbing. I miss Scorpius so much. No matter what Andy says, Scorpius is my _best_ friend. He's stuck with me through thick and thin, comforted me when I needed a shoulder to cry on.

A small insidious voice in my head remarks that Andy would have done the same, had I given him the chance. That I avoided him like a coward, effectively cutting him out of my life with a scalpel and cauterizing the wound, like I saw doctors do at the clinic I visited once I was in recovery after the powerplant accident. I prioritized a boy who I had a crush on over the person who had meant so much to me.

"Shut up," I whisper, looking in the mirror, seeing my mismatched eyes staring back at me with such anguish that I almost throw up. How can a single person hold so much hate? So much sadness?

I turn on the shower, and cry. I don't know how long it takes, but once the hysterical hiccups subside, I come out of the shower, my face blotchy, but my head clearer than it has been in the past few hours.

I make myself comfortable in bed. It's plushy and humongous, and an involuntary sigh escapes my lips. Scorpius would have liked it here.

I have so many regrets. I wish I had realized my love for Scorpius sooner. I wish I hadn't distracted my father that day. I wish the sparks hadn't flown everywhere. I wish all these good and innocent people didn't die electrocuted because of me. No matter what Andy says, my father took me to his work, and I distracted him to make that _one_ fatal mistake. I wish he hadn't.

So many wishes.

So many empty wishes.

As I lie in bed, I revisit all the times I was called a mindless idiot, a monster, a heartless bitch, a disgusting whore. Believe it or not, I remember every single taunting word, every single instance that I was bullied because of what I did. I deserved it, after all, so why did it hurt so bad?

Maybe I'm _roadkill_ or _skunk girl _to some, the object of their derision and hatred for others. Maybe I don't deserve anyone's sympathy but here I am. Andy must be here for a reason, with me. It's time to mend things, he's right. I realize that somewhere along the line, I started calling him Andy again, and I have no idea what prompted that switch. We can't go back in time, but there is still hope to fix something.

I already know I'll have trouble sleeping tonight, I haven't slept properly ever since the accident, but for the first time in a very long while, something like determination bubbles within me.

I can make things right. Maybe.

* * *

_Notes: Angst galore! Here's to Mara Griffith, the instigator of the great fire in Powerplantville™ of District 5. She doesn't have a lot going for her, she's got mood swings for days, and I want to know exactly what you think of her. Is she being fair to Andy? Is she a little too Scorpius-obsessed for her own good?_

_We're almost half-way through the introduction chapters, folks and you can probably tell I'm going fairly linearly. We'll see if that continues because I have zero planning, but I promise you that I'll deliver to the best of my capabilities. Also, I am going to be working a blog, which should come up eventually in the next couple of weeks, perhaps month. I am also getting incredibly busy with work/graduate studies, so updates might get a little less frequent, but I will still try to stick to the "at least once a week" schedule since I'm as excited as some of you are to get this show on the road. Thanks for bearing with me!_

_Peace and love. _


	14. Chapter 11: District 6 Roizer Loudon

**Roizer Loudon**

**District 6 Male, 14  
****Train Rides, Night  
**

* * *

I'm honestly not even sure if this is a dream or if this is truly happening. The darkness is almost suffocating, even as my eyes frantically go from side to side, in order to catch a glimpse of something, _anything_ that might give an indication of where I am. Something above me is rumbling. It must be the bombs raining down on District 6. Or maybe it's below me, who knows anymore. It's like I am in the bunker all over again, the locks on the door sealed shut. The bunker. That's where I am.

I was born here, I remember. In this doomsday shelter where our family was supposed to survive long enough for the rebels to win. All I know, all I remember is this suffocating darkness and the sound of war above or below me. As I said, I couldn't ever really tell.

I panic, realizing my parents must have locked me in again. I am alone while they went god-knows-where, spreading fear and death. They are rebels and they are on their way to kill people. After all, their bloodthirst didn't end with ambushing soldiers. Every time they came back, the euphoric tone of their voices said it all as they instructed me to stand near the opposite wall of the shelter while they unlocked the door, lest I attempt to leave our safe-haven.

They brought a Capitol soldier helmet back once, as a trophy, with bits of brain still attached to it. I was three years old and I still remember the putrid smell and their smiles, followed by their reprimands as they saw that I did not share their enthusiasm. I was goddamn three years old.

The old memories stop playing on and on at the back on my mind, and I realize with horror and rising panic that this is the _morning_! They're on their way to kill those poor Capitol children, the collateral damage that is necessary to inflict real pain on our enemies, as my father put it. Somewhere along the lines, I became collateral damage too, it seems.

They're going to kill them! Kids just like me, five, six years old. They told me all about it. They slapped me when I cried, when I sympathized with kids just like me who didn't know what was coming! They locked me in, and there's nothing I can do to stop them!

The rumbling, the heavy sounds of metal, crushing, tearing through frail bodies, the fire roaring… I cover my ears and try to breathe. It's almost impossible, so I run up to the door and reach for the locks that I know are too high-up for me to reach because I'm only five years old.

That's strange. I couldn't ever reach them before. Now, my hand locks around something protruding distinctly from what I guess is the door. The locks were so much higher and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't unlock them. I couldn't unlock them. I see the locks and they are at eye-level now. I'm not a kid anymore.

I frantically push off the covers, bolting upright as I wake up. The darkness no longer threatens to choke me. The rumbling is definitely coming from below my bed, the covers are plush and comfortable, nothing like the hole-riddled fleece blanket I had in the bunker.

That's right, I remember, _I'm on the train_, on my way to the Capitol. I got reaped. I am no longer in District 6 and I said goodbye to my parents. Raleigh and Cabster, that's their names. They're not Axel and Carmen. They're not the ones who locked me up during the entirety of my childhood, committing atrocious acts against innocent bystanders in the name of war and justice, even though the rebels had already lost.

I am not in the bunker, in that hellhole six feet underground, where no one could hear my screams when I understood how trapped I was, what terrorists my old parents were.

There are tears at the corners of my eyes that escape as I blink.

I am not five, I am fourteen. This is real-life now. I just got confused by the noises, and the stress of this entire situation.

Axel and Carmen Lowhill. Those were the names of the murderers that raised me from birth in a tiny room that barely fit two cots and a waste hole. I loved them, in the beginning, when I didn't know any better. I believed in the fact that I was a "bad disobedient naughty boy" for wanting to escape the prison they built under the pretext of protecting me from the war. I believed in their fool-hardy endeavors to free themselves from the clutches of the ever-oppressive Capitol.

I never got attuned to their need for violence though. Even at five years of age, I was not duped into believing that bombing an entire school full of Capitol children on a Monday morning was somehow warranted, in the grand scheme of things.

That morning is something I think about a lot. My parents successfully carried out the attack, and I will remember their faces when they came in, having smuggled alcohol and recreative drugs to celebrate for as long as I live.

That was the day I escaped, too.

My new parents, Raleigh and Cabster, they put me into therapy because of how traumatized I was by the whole ordeal. At the time, I didn't realize just how abusive, delusional and violent Axel and Carmen were. All I knew was the animal-like _impulse_ to get out of the enclosed space, no matter the cost. To escape the people that rolled around disgustingly on the bed near mine, laughing, hiccupping and congratulating each other about the heinous act they had just participated in.

My adoptive dad said it wasn't a good idea to repress those memories.

It's almost nine years since these events, and I still can't completely shake myself free of the shackles that hold me. I still feel guilty too, sometimes, for ratting them out. When I escaped, I ran as quickly as my weakened legs could carry me. It wasn't very fast, but it was enough to have a Peacekeeper find me.

I told him everything when I was brought to their central station.

I told them about my then-family name, the explosion at the Capitol earlier that morning, the location of our doomsday shelter. They brought me along, as a witness, when they dragged my parents out of that hole. One of the Peacekeepers vomited on the scene, appalled at the poor conditions in which I had allegedly been forced to live in.

My parents' faces are what I remember best though, before they were put on trial and executed like dogs. The shame, the rage, the unrepressed disappointment. It's funny how it's not even their actions, their deeds that haunt me. It's their faces reacting to something I've done that I can't let go of.

I can't stop thinking about all of this. I don't even have an audience and it's replaying like a defective video tape. It's awful how all of this resurfaces whenever I am stressed or upset. I guess getting reaped into the Games is pretty upsetting, but still. I'd rather be thinking about anything other than my past.

I drum my fingers on the edge of my bed, fidgeting a little too much for my liking.

I realize what I need. My notebook. Even though it's late and I know I will be dead-tired tomorrow, I have an itch to draw, to create, to write stories.

I search my room frantically, humming a little tune as I do it. It's nowhere to be seen.

That's really odd, and in an attempt to reconstruct the events of the past few hours, I replay the steps of my reaping, the goodbyes, the hugs I received from my parents and Spooky, my adoptive brother who tried to volunteer for me. The advice my homeschooling teacher Windy gave me as she patted me on the head sadly, and told me I was her most special student. Toyota, my homeschooling mate who broke down and admitted tearfully that he didn't have any other friends. That I was important to him, even though he did make stupid jokes that annoyed everyone around him including me.

I replay it all, and the notebook did not leave my hand through it all. It was the one constant thing in this absolute ramshackle of a situation. I find myself repeating "ramshackle" out loud, feeling it out in my mouth. It's a cool word, and I'll have to use it in one of my stories.

In the process of reconstructing these events, I realize that my notebook could be in one more location.

I might have left it in my attempt to hurry away, as dinner with the Capitol escort and Daisy got progressively more awkward and tense, until I couldn't bear it anymore. Until I felt like I could no longer reign in my tics and incessant fidgeting. Until I felt like I could explode under the escort's gaze.

I ran away to my room and I must have forgotten it near the dinner table.

_Way to go Roizer,_ I think soberly. _You're not even ten hours into this whole mess and you're already losing your stuff. _

I breathe in, breathe out, and set out to find my notebook as my brain reels with ideas, storylines and wonky characters. I tip-toe down the hall, hearing coughing and what sounds like constricted sobbing coming from Daisy's room.

And then I peer into the main lounge and see our escort Melchior, who is miraculously still awake, watching television tiredly. Goddamn it.

I really don't feel like interacting with people right now. I start clucking my tongue on my palette with my mouth closed, to minimize the noise.

I creep up behind him, shuffling my feet at the last few steps to make my presence known.

He jumps slightly, and clutches his heart.

"Oh, Roizer, you scared me."

He squints, suspicion tinting his wide blue eyes.

"What are you doing up so late? You should get some sleep before tomorrow. It's the Chariots and you need to look your best."

"Can't," I mumble. "Forgot my book here, after supper."

He sniffs.

"Fine."

He was probing us about our life in District 6 during the meal and got increasingly frustrated when he couldn't get anything out of us. As though I'll admit that my real parents were Capitol-children murderers, and that the only reason I survived is because I essentially became the world's worst snitch. And don't even get me started on whatever the hell is wrong with Daisy, to want to volunteer for this ordeal.

That's the worst part of the Games for me right now. I can't talk to Daisy at all, because of my social anxiety, coupled with the fact that she rebuffs any attempt anyone makes at connecting with her. I get it, I don't judge.

The issue here is that ever since I escaped the bunker, I've meticulously been trying to become someone worthy. Desperately, I built my own little circle of friendly faces. These people who I worked so hard on being accepted by… they're all gone, back in District 6. All my human connections have been ripped away at a moment's notice.

Even as inept as I am with interacting with others, I know Daisy will not fill that gaping hole, not in a million years.

I can count on my fingers the number of people that I consider dear. Raleigh and Cabster, my adoptive parents. Spooky. Windy, my teacher. Toyota, my friend. Wright, my therapist.

It's sad to think of it that way, but nine years to form connections with six people is like…less than one-person-per-year average. And I wish I could be optimistic about this, but I doubt I'll be connecting with anyone here, before the Games start and I die.

We don't even have a mentor, District 6 hasn't gotten a victor since the beginning of the Games. I just don't understand why Melchior is so antagonistic towards us, why he doesn't at least _pretend_ to like us. I gather up my courage and ask him.

"What's to like? No offense, kid."

I shrug, my social anxiety starting to get the best of me. _Goddamn_ it, I'm leaving, I don't want to talk anymore, I don't want to hear Daisy's coughing and I don't want to think about how no one cares about my life out here.

Without another word, I find my notebook, clutch it nervously and spin my pen in my other hand, twirling it with ease through my fingers. Melchior just looks away, ignoring my presence. I use that opportunity to skitter back to my room, sprinting the last portion of the corridor in order to distract myself from the pitiful noises coming from Daisy's sleeping quarters.

I open the small bed-side lamp, jump into bed and settle myself comfortably, flipping open the pages. Then, even though my stomach flutters with anticipation to create new content, I perform my little ritual by going through the previously-filled pages.

My book is separated into two parts. One part is a bunch of sketches I make from my own life. This is something my therapist told me I should do, to come to terms with the things that bother me.

There are crooked drawings of my tiny scary bunker, contrasting starkly with the spacious and beautiful house I have been living in for the past nine years.

There are drawings of the factory with a huge red bright sign reading "Loudon&Yu inc.". I drew this one when visiting District 6's most important factory which creates various pieces related to vehicles and transport. Cabster partially owns the factory, and I remember him saying business was booming, with the new energy-efficient train underway.

I flip some more pages, seeing Raleigh's smiling face, cartoonify-ied to a point where I'm the only one who could probably recognize her. Then it's Spooky dancing in his room, with a speech-bubble coming out of his mouth. I never filled up that speech-bubble because Spooky just says so many things and they're all hilarious and I couldn't just settle on one defining quote.

There's a drawing of the four of us smiling, in our best clothes, as the mayor gives Cabster a medal of distinction, for working intimately with the Capitol to boost District 6's production and economy.

Then there's Wright. When my parents adopted me, I could barely speak, I was terrified of my own shadow, I was unable to adapt to the outside world. Raleigh insisted on putting me into therapy and I have been Wright's long-term patient. I've never transferred. He's always been good to me. Alone in my room, I can't help but touch this drawing, because I miss talking to him and having him explain to me how I can get better. I won't have any of that over here.

A few pages later, I get to _my_ stories, the really good stuff. Some are fantasy, some feature characters inspired by real life. They're all fairly recent since I've only gotten into this a couple of years ago. There's hundreds of tiny comic strips, adventures, stories and notes.

I find a new page and start scribbling ideas with my pen. My drawings have never been amazing, although the people I've shown them to have always insisted they were. I think my strength lies in my imagination, in my ability to spin stories out of thin air.

It's ironic that I have the hardest time putting words together while talking to someone, but once I get a paper and pen, the craziest things come of it.

Tonight, I am making a comic strip about a superhero, with a cape and all. He's been recruited by a fictitious government to infiltrate a villainous base, where world-destroying chemical weapons are being kept.

I write the dialogue, making it as witty as possible. I imagine myself in the shoes of this all-knowing, talented, charismatic hero who can take on any challenge, get any girl he wants. Or any boy.

I let my pen fly, drawing feverishly the characters, the bombs, the train-wreck victims who thank the hero for saving them at his own peril.

And it seems that time flies by at the speed of light when I create, because as soon as I finish the first part of the adventure, ending with the hero whose name I tentatively decided was Roy, strapped to a rocket headed for the Moon, I see light shining through the window. It's already morning.

The rumbling of the train comes to a halt and the entire machine jolts only slightly, jerking me out of my creative stupor.

We are in the Capitol now, I realize.

I must have stayed up all night.

I throw down my pen and hurry to the window, pulling up the blinds. I am greeted by one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

The sunrise paints the entire scenery in a rose tint, the glint of the sun bouncing off the skyscrapers which litter the horizon.

There are industrial cranes, lots of them. But even in the midst of the intensive construction going on, the city somehow looks majestic, beautifully elegant and extravagant. I don't even think have enough words to describe this view.

Quintayevo, the imaginary city which is my hero's final destination located on the Moon, is already being formed in my head as I hungrily absorb every last detail of the Capitol skyline.

The engine starts up again, at a much slower speed, and I lean my forehead against the window. This is one of those moments when I wish I had more colors at my disposal and more _talent_, so I could really convey the beauty of what I'm seeing. I wish I could show my parents.

Roy's adventures, potential plot lines, interesting quotes… they all melt away gradually as I watch the sun slowly go up and I can't help but think that even in District 6, this phenomenon has never looked this …intensely majestic?

I know I've been distracting myself from the real task at hand, which is essentially preparing myself for the inevitable death that comes with being reaped into the Hunger Games. I'm not particularly scared of dying, not right now at least. It might sound weird, even as I think about it, but I've always known my life wouldn't have a happy ending. Not with the way it started. Not with the way that every memory clings to the very fabric of my brain, eliciting the awkward physical responses, the tics and the fidgeting. Not with the years of self-hatred, doubt and guilt making me grow up beyond my years.

I don't particularly _want_ to die though, not anymore at least. But that ambivalence is exactly why I didn't let Spook volunteer for me. He lives for the social gatherings and the parties, he loves life too much, whereas for most of mine, I've been actively fighting to stay _interested_ in it.

It's kind of sad to think of it that way, but it's true. I'm only staying optimistic because I know I've got a handful of people rooting for me back home.

I just hope that before I die, I'll be able to come up with a few more stories, a few more comic strips that will eventually make their way back to my parents. Back to Spooky. So that they understand that they've done a good job raising me and taking care of me.

I wonder what the other tributes will be like. I know Spooky insisted during the goodbyes that I review the Reapings to watch out for potential allies, before getting to the Capitol. After all, it's common knowledge that these trains have universal television channel access. That's even more channels than what we have at home.

The idea is great, in theory.

The problem is, that's _all_ Spooky. Getting to know people, charming them, interacting. I'm not sure I can do it, so I didn't really bother starting.

Maybe it's a mistake.

I look at the time on the digital clock and see that I have another hour or two to kill before Melchior comes calling us to eat breakfast.

I get a slightly crazy idea, just now.

Maybe I can watch the recaps, and sketch the tributes. Not the mean or scary ones, but the nice ones.

I reckon this is a pretty good use of my time, considering the objective is two-fold: I'll be observing my competition, looking out for potential allies and honing my drawing skills.

Yeah, I'm too jittery to sleep anyways.

It's a good idea.

I turn on the television in my room, mute the volume so that I don't risk waking anybody up and let my pen fly.

* * *

_Notes: This sweetie-pie was a pleasure to write! He's awkward, he's genuine and he's a ball of sadness sometimes, but here's Roizer from District 6! Let me know what you thought of him. Do you think his difficulties interacting with others will end up hindering him during the Games, or will he get over his fear of socializing? _

_Once again, thank you to all those reviewing and reading, it means a crap-ton._

_In other news, I have finalized arena-plans, so if anyone of you wants to start going ham on predictions, be my guest. _

_Next up, Daisy Jackson. While Roizer came from a very well-off adoptive family, she's going to offer a completely different perspective. Keep in mind that this is our first Victor-less district, so things are bound to get disorganized and you'll just have to wait and see how these two tributes fare._

_Peace and love. _


	15. Chapter 12: District 6 Daisy Jackson

_Trigger warning: implied rape and abuse themes. Nothing explicit and no in-depth description of character-on-character violence, but it felt awfully taxing to write, so for any one of you who want to avoid it because they are really sensitive to the subject, I'd suggest either diagonal reading this chapter or skipping it entirely._

* * *

**Daisy Jackson **

**District 6 Female, 15  
****Arrival to the Capitol  
**

* * *

"Girl, get out of your room. We are eating breakfast in five minutes and leaving."

Fuck that. I back away to the very edge of the room.

I know I signed up for this, because I want to die. I couldn't get off my medication, off the variety of drugs I take. I couldn't drag a knife deep enough into my veins to end my life. I'm one of the most weak-willed people I know.

"Breakfast in five minutes!"

The man's voice grates my ears and I hiss in response because I have nothing to say.

As I said, I volunteered to die. I didn't volunteer for all this extra dumb baggage that comes along.

I don't want their fucking food, I want their drugs and for them to leave me the fuck alone.

I think I did the right thing volunteering for the Games. It's the last thing I have a grasp on and maybe I even saved some poor girl from death. No one normal wants to die like I do, after all.

There's thumping on my door. It's not stopping.

I don't know what the hell is going on.

I don't understand why my room is so big. I don't know why there's no sharp edges to any of the wood. The clothes in the closet are all soft and plush and I have to use my broken nails to scratch at my skin. It feels like it's on fire and I think it's the withdrawal kicking in.

It's only been a couple of hours, too.

I want to die so bad, why can't they just shoot me right now.

I know why. I was always smart, until my drug dependence took that intelligence and smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces because feeding my addiction is my priority now. I was smart enough to understand that they want a _show_, they want us to die nicely so that they remember us.

I only actually watched the Games twice or three times, so I don't _really_ know, so I'm just guessing. That must be why they're annoying me with this god-awful knocking that ricochets in my skull. I dig my nails into my scalp, to distract myself from the _thump_. _Thump_. _Thump_. Sounds too familiar.

Reminds me of the bad things.

I also remember they send the tributes gifts. Maybe I'll get gifts. Maybe I'll have ketamine or morphling or cocaine raining down on me because I'll kill enough people before dying.

I pick at my elbow and gather myself off the ground.

"_DAISY_. COME TO THE LOUNGE RIGHT NOW."

The escort slams his fist on my door and I jump, baring my teeth in self-preservation even though he can't see me.

I muster the courage to speak.

"I'm …coming," I croak, voice hoarse.

I put on my clothes and open the door, walking to the place with food. They call it something fancy but there's just soft couches, chairs, no sharp corners.

There's lots of food. I never really went _that_ hungry. I lived on the streets and I know a lot of my friends died from hunger or from the cold, but the drugs always somehow kept me _going_. My bones show through my skin, sure, but at least I don't _feel_ hungry. Ol' Namie at the street corner always complained about her hollow belly but I never did, because that's what the drugs do to you. They destroy you from the inside out, make you want to claw through your own translucent skin but they also elevate you to space and beyond. Hunger and sleep deprivation are not things you can feel at that point.

"You need to eat something," the escort remarks helpfully, as I look on, eyes wide. I've never really seen that much variety in my entire life.

"What are those?" I ask, pointing at the small round plump yellow circles with red and green things inside of them. I can't really even describe them.

"They're called courgettes, Daisy. And here there's mini-quiches. They're good, try them," the escort prompts, although he takes a step back. He thinks I'm disgusting, no doubt.

"You should really take a shower, before we arrive," the man says, confirming my suspicions.

I nod, even though I don't really know _where_ the showers are. I don't really care, because I'm suddenly so cold and itchy that I almost faint.

I smush my cheeks with my hand, my skin sagging slightly under my touch as I try to figure out what exactly I can eat without upsetting my already-sensitive system.

There is some sort of fruit I've never seen before, salads, pasta-dishes, eggs, little tarts that I think are sweet but I wouldn't put past the Capitol chefs to make them some weird flavor regardless. To a normal person, this would appear as the epitome of luck, to have the chance to dine on such fine products when hailing from an upbringing such as my own. I heard a few desperate kids volunteer to die in these Games every year to get the chance to try this kind of food.

After the war, it's not a surprise. But despite this the sight of all this variety turns my saliva into ash, in my mouth. I know what I'm _really_ missing.

"Hey, uh…Do you – do you know by any chance… where I could get uh … morphling…" I stammer. I twirl my faded blond hair absentmindedly, trying to keep the raw desire for drugs out of my eyes.

The escort smirks. Honest-to-god smirks and I want to rip his face off for making fun of me.

I'm not a child.

He approaches me again and I eye him wearily, all food forgotten.

"No, Daisy, we don't have that stuff here. You'll just have to keep it together for now," he says condescendingly and reaches out to touch my shoulder. As though that gesture is somehow supportive. As though it's meant to make me feel better.

Instead, I reel away from the touch.

As though he can empathize with a girl who got addicted to this shit before she could properly count to ten.

These slimy fingers hovering near me, always grabbing, probing, possessively groping under the rotten pretext of comfort.

It's _sick_. I want to spit in his face and instead I drag my broken nails across my arms, retreating.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He's getting angry, I can tell. They always get angry before they grab you where you don't want it. Where you _really_ don't want it.

I wrap my thin shawl around my bony shoulders, crossing my legs and shifting even further away, glaring at him accusatorily. I don't want him fucking _touching_ me.

"Why did I get stuck with the psychotic ones," I hear him mutter under his breath as he throws his hands up, quitting.

I'm not psychotic, I want to tell him. I want to scream about the touching, the beatings I've suffered. I want to cry about my mother's death that only worsened the abuse. I want to tell him that the best day of my life was when my father finally got arrested for "molestation and illicit substance trafficking", which is just a fancy way of saying he raped me and countless others, spreading drugs around the district and being a general asshole to anything that moved.

My own father made me this way.

I don't say anything at all because the escort wouldn't understand anyways. I just settle back into the seat, crossing my legs once again and scratching at my wrists, trying to figure out what to do next.

The boy that got chosen to be my partner comes into the room and senses the tension immediately. I don't know what his name is and I want to ask. Did he volunteer too? I don't remember. I want to tell someone that the only people I hate more than myself were the ones who created me, to at least explain why I'm like this. Maybe I could talk to the boy eventually. The details of the reaping are hazy, but from the way he avoids me, dropping his gaze and never looking into my eyes…

He's scared of me.

I'd be scared of me too. It's unnatural for someone to crave death so badly.

Somewhere along the line as he shuffles to the food, I realize he's that one rich guy's son, the one who owns the biggest factory in District 6. I wouldn't have even ever known this, except I've been dealing coke with one of their workers for the past three years. It was always an in-and-out operation, I was desperate to get the money for medication and… not-medication. The guy was always fair to me.

I've seen the kid with his parents. His mother…she leaned protectively over this boy. It's weird, because the past four or five years of my life have been under a kind of mist, as though a heavy shroud was drawn over my eyes. But those gestures of love…they pierce through like a needle. They hurt, a little bit. The drugs running through my veins attenuate that pain in my hungry heart for a moment or two.

This boy was loved, as awkward as he is. He's only a year or two younger than I am, too.

This thought scares me.

I flee the room, and from the corner of my eye I see the boy lift his eyes a little. I didn't even take food, but he doesn't seem surprised by the way I act out. He probably thinks he's seen dozens of poor girls like me, high like a fucking kite, trying to get by. I'm so much worse than those girls.

I close my door quietly, and start crying again. I can't _fucking_ stop crying, I am in so much pain I feel like stomach is turned inside-out. I feel like my skin is being stabbed with hundreds of ant-pincers. I want to scream but I can't. The only thing I can do is melt down onto the floor and shake. My eyes water and search frantically around the room.

I spot a little machine on the night table, and for some reason it attracts my attention despite my mind failing me at the moment. While I'm still in terrible pain, the tiny fraction of my brain that is still rational reasons that getting invested in something right now might make this episode pass quicker.

I drag myself to the little black box on the night table, and click on the buttons with trembling fingers. Music starts playing softly out of the box, and I find myself humming along, even though the tears haven't stopped flowing. I don't know this melody, but it's soft and it soothes the ache somewhat. Not entirely, not even close, but it's better than before. It makes me feel not entirely alone. I can't even say it reminds me of a better time, because truth be told, my life was never pretty. _I_ used to be pretty, but that wasted away with the drug abuse and homelessness and lifestyle I chose for myself.

I don't want anyone's pity, I've never wanted it, but some compassion would have been nice. Either way, this life, compassion or not, is almost over. As the song washes over me and I lean into the music, I think about how maybe I'll be used as an example to help people stuck in similar situations like me. Ever since I ran away from home, I haven't had access to any type of electronic device and this melody just feels so novel, so alien and yet so enchanting. A small part of me regrets having spent every last amount of money I had on drugs, instead of investing in a small device such as this one. I could have imagined a whole world with music like this, and maybe I wouldn't have turned out so screwed up.

I don't even know how much time passes.

The next thing I know, the door is collapsing in on itself.

No, that's not quite right.

It's the man again. He opened the door. I shut off the music on the box. I feel something like defeat mixed with a fair dose of panic rising in my throat, and I drag my forearm across my eyes.

God, how often have I been found just like this. What _he_ did after though, this can't be happening. _Not again._

"Stop whimpering like a pitiful cur, and get up. Up, Daisy."

I try to crawl away, but he grabs my arm and I go limp.

I don't even understand half the dumb words he's saying but I know they're hurtful and I'd be upset if I wasn't overwhelmed by the pain in my body, and the panic alarms in my brain.

"Where, what are you doing?" I ask quietly, hiccupping and disoriented.

"I'm not doing anything. God _forbid_. I wouldn't touch you with a five-foot pole if I could afford it, but the chariots parade is coming up. We need you looking presentable for when we step foot in the Capitol."

He pauses, and I squint at him, scratching at my forearm. I just wish they'd give me _something,_ are they really that inhumane?

"You still haven't showered despite spending all your time here."

He wrinkles his nose.

"I guess the prep team will have an even more daunting task than usual."

He releases my arm once he sees that I won't stop resisting.

"Daisy, please stop this," he adds, a tiny bit of fake compassion seeping into his voice. I instinctively narrow my eyes. He wants something from me, and I don't know what it is.

"If you come with me, we might even be able to get you something. You know, _something_ you were asking me before," he punctuates his sentence with a conspiratory wink.

It's disgusting and I practically drool as I trip over my own feet in my desperation to follow him. They might give me drugs.

I can barely hold my excitement, and my stomach does summersaults as I am led across hallways, doors, stations, security checks.

I honestly have no idea if we're in the Capitol already or not, if this sudden extension of the train became available to us and we're being relocated to some other world within this great machine. Who the fuck cares, I might get my drugs and ease my pain.

I am pushed inside a white room. I can't see properly, so I squint. I didn't even notice how the escort slipped out, because I was so focused on the beautiful merciful idea that I might finally get the hit I desperately need.

I look around and I see another door open. Three odd-looking individuals enter and I instinctively put myself in a fighting stance. It's three men.

I can't fight off three men, especially not ones taller than me. One of them is wearing scary-looking contraptions on his feet that look like the heels the strippers in District 6 wear but they're oddly shaped, just like the rest of him.

I'm really _really_ scared again.

"Hello, Daisy Jackson," they say in unison and a bead of sweat runs down my spine. I can practically see it dip in and out with the shape of my bones.

"Hi," I answer back, hugging my clothes closer and keeping my feet close to each other. I don't want to provoke them.

"We are your stylist team," one man answers. Upon closer inspection, he's more of a boy, green hair raised high. His eyes shine with excitement, and the implications once again make bile rise in my throat.

"Are you going to give me drugs?" I ask timidly. It takes every ounce of courage I have left not to leap on the men and dig my nails into their faces, my defense mechanisms going into overdrive.

"Oh heavens, no absolutely _not,_ we're here to make you looking acceptable for your official arrival to the Capitol," he retorts, all energy and smiles.

I stare at him hollowly.

"Now if you please, take off that hideous gown so we can scrub you clean. Even someone as… mess-inclined as yourself will look good," the other, taller and older man affirms, punctuating it with a forceful tug which sends me reeling into their arms.

I'm not giving them permission. As I said, I'm here to get killed and to shoot up and get high before I die if I get lucky. I'm not here for all this awful shit. Why can't they just understand that. I try begging them through my gaze. Maybe they'll take pity on me.

I've lived a horrible life, can't they see it from the sting trails along my arms, the bruises, the ripped-out hair which could have been beautiful and luscious in another life.

I whimper, because maybe that'll make them reconsider. It doesn't.

They're undressing me.

They're taking off my clothes and I realize that that's the last thing I want to happen to me. I don't want them to take off my clothes and see me.

I stubbornly keep my hands on my dress, refusing to let them move and lock eyes with the stylist.

"We have to take care of you, and frankly dear, you're one of the messier ones. We just can't let you go out in public in that state," the man says matter-of-factly, his hands running through my hair.

I want to bite his hand, rip his fingers off for touching me. I don't want him touching me.

I don't let go of my clothes. In fact, I lock my fingers in the fabric as though my life depended on it, and start hysterically screaming.

My last thought before my mind goes blind with panic as three people suddenly force their hands on me, trying to pry my own away from my clothes is that _maybe_ they're going to undress me or even _rape_ me, but maybe they'll give me drugs so it'll be all worth it. It won't, but it will.

I don't stop screaming.

* * *

_Notes: All I can say is yikes. Daisy Jackson from D6, everybody. This was awful to write and kind of horrifying, considering the abuse and damage she's suffered. She's got one hell of a traumatic backstory and it shows. Her skewed view of the world and absolutely scrambled thoughts kind of adds to the unreliable narrator thing I'm trying to push so this was a challenge to write. __Let me know what you think of her._

_Onto happier things: Exciting news, we are halfway done through meeting the tributes! That means there's only twelve beautiful chapters until we see our gorgeous children interacting in training. Please pretty please let me know what you think of the kids as of now, since your opinion really shapes the way I go about forming alliances, structuring dialogue and the likes. I also live for criticism and praise, because I'm a vain creature...you heard it._

_A dear friend of mine and I are working on a blog, so that should be up soon. Shoutout to twistedservice for being a helpful and inspirational human for this story. If you're here and somehow haven't read twistedservice's stuff, go check out Invictus, shit's hitting the fan in that story. _

_Peace and love. _


	16. Chapter13:District 7 Logan Arteficavitch

**Logan Arteficavitch**

**District 7 Male, 15  
****Chariot preparation**

* * *

I don't know how, but the fear that's been gripping my insides since yesterday is starting to dissipate a little. I'm still objectively terrified, and I know every day brings me closer to my potential death, but I guess that's just a human thing: to get used to some situation or another and make it the new normal.

Maybe for the rest of my existence, my new normal will be to be manhandled by some people I've never met, shoved into strange costumes and carted off to interact with a bunch of teenagers, each of which could potentially end my life in a few days' time.

The weird thing is that during the first few hours on the train, my entire body was actively rebelling against the idea. I didn't want to talk to anyone, I threw up my food and I barricaded myself in my room, as though that was going to be any use.

Now, I'm just here, standing in this dumb tree-themed costume, like "yeah, this is totally fine." My stomach is no longer twisting, coiling and threatening to send me barreling towards a bathroom to vomit. "This is fine", my _ass_, but at least my heart stopped feeling like it's going to quit on me any second, and my eyes stopped trying to escape my head as they widened to inhuman levels, in fear of what might happen in the Games.

Both organs are kind of necessary if I want to at least have a _chance_ in this. My situation is far from ideal, probably worse now that the minutes are ticking down to my untimely and likely demise, but what can I say. It's nice for my nervous system to be overridden at least somewhat.

I busy myself by scratching at the fake bark painted on my arm. I don't get very far, peeling off only a tiny portion of it as my stylist enters the room.

"Other stylists are still preparing their tributes for the parade, but I was the quickest one so both you and Morgana have plenty of time before the chariots," she announces with such pride that I don't have the power to tell her that this might be because our costumes are literally just brown pants, a loose green shirt and lazy designs painted on our arms in a quick uncaring manner. I mean… it could be _worse_. It could be something utterly embarrassing, which has happened in previous years.

It's almost as though they do it on purpose.

"You can go sit in the common room with Morgana," she adds, beaming, when I don't reply. As I stand up, she sees my handiwork on my arm that she interrupted by entering the room and frowns.

"Stop fidgeting so much," she says hurriedly, as she runs across the room to get a can of spray-paint. I don't ask whether or not it's the kind that is safe for use on skin because, _holy shit who cares Logan, you're a few days away from fighting other kids to the death on national television, who cares, who cares, who cares!_

I doubt anyone in a hundred-mile radius cares whether or not this paint is safe, and this utter indifference and disregard for my safety almost sends me spiraling back into a hyperventilating state. Instead, I just turn off my brain, and think extra-hard that this paint design is _super_ _cool_, despite obvious proof of the contrary.

So, I just let the stylist spray an extra layer on my right arm for good measure, obediently extending it out.

She inspects me from head to toe, one last time, ruffles my hair in a way that could only be described as _stylish_ and ushers me out of the room.

In the lobby, I see Morgana, standing alone with her arms crossed protectively against her chest. I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet, not that I really wanted to, but she seems well put-together.

Then again, she volunteered for this shit, so already my opinion of her is a little…biased. My mom probably would not have been happy with me handing out judgement like this before getting to _actually_ know her, but my mom isn't here right now. She hasn't been around since Peacekeepers shot her dead shortly after my birth.

Morgana is looking around curiously right now, peering at me momentarily before her eyes settle somewhere else, on the pristine white wall behind me.

Two servants dressed in red shuffle in, carrying a huge table which seem to bend with the weight of food on top of it. Sandwiches of different varieties, meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables litter the huge golden plates. One of the servants trips over her feet and nearly drops her end of the table. The other servant, a man, glares at her, his expression unreadable.

I ignore the fact that I'm in full chariot garb and jog over to them. They seem more talkative than Morgana, anyways.

"Do you guys need help?" I ask timidly.

I guess I was wrong about the "talkative" part. They both seem to shy away from my voice, hastening to set the table at the corner of the room in silence, picking up a few stray grapes that fell, while the young woman tripped. On second glance, both servants look eerily similar, in their late twenties or early thirties. They might be twins, judging from the identical curly black hair and the same expressive dark-brown eyes.

I want to ask them why they are so scared of me.

"You don't have to help them."

Morgana's voice rings loud and clear in the room.

I turn around. I know it's not smart, but I get a little defensive. I mean _shit_, I know she didn't bother, but that doesn't mean I can't be a decent human being.

"_You_ don't have to help them," I answer back, aware of the fact that there are about a million smarter and wittier things I could have said, but here we are.

"I'm not saying this to upset you, you know," Morgana continues as the servants leave the room.

"They're Avoxes, which means they did something bad… and _we're_ the Capitol's guests. We shouldn't be helping them, because it might get _them_ into trouble."

I frown. That kind of makes zero sense on the "human-decency" front, but I don't want to argue anymore. After all, I know next to nothing when it comes to Capitol etiquette.

"Fine."

I back away from the food and the servants.

Morgana seems to be feeling out words in her mouth, unsure of where to lead this conversation. I have no idea either, so I stay silent.

I don't know much about her. She is familiar with Sunhdit, our only Victor, but I hadn't really bothered getting friendly with either of them on the train. I had higher trees to climb, so to speak. I was too focused on trying to not have a full-on meltdown, so sue me for not being the most sociable person right there and then.

"So, what's it like back home, for you?" she finally settles on.

"Eh, I get by. Go to school and stuff. Live with my sister and her …friend," I say quietly, not sure why she wants to know and slightly reticent to elaborate. "You?"

"I'm alone," she answers bluntly, and I'm a little taken aback by the edge in her tone.

"I mean, my brother got killed by rebels before I was born, my dad and mom were both killed by Peacekeepers," I venture, partly in order to make her feel better about her own crappy situation.

I don't tell Morgana that my family desperately tried not to pick sides, even though we suffered greatly from the bombings and the chemical weapons from both the Capitol and the opposing forces.

We tried to stay neutral, we really _did_. The dumb part is that we ended up helping a Capitol soldier anyways, when he showed up wounded at our doorstep. We weren't supposed to, but we did because my parents were decent people and believed in the inherent goodness of others, and we paid for that dearly.

Dahlia, my sister, is my only family now.

Even though I don't give her all these details, Morgana hums in sympathy. I see it in her eyes that she understands that my story has layers I am not willing to unveil just yet.

"So, you, your sister and her friend live in a foster home, now?" she asks.

"No, I've been…we've been on our own since _that_ stuff. We manage," I say. I don't elaborate on how exactly we manage, despite the fact that she'll probably figure it out on her own.

Us _managing_, it's not completely the truth, but I don't trust Morgana enough to start explaining to her the complexities of my family situation. If I bothered to get into the details of it all, Damon is more than just my sister's friend. He is a couple of years older than she is, but he's essentially adopted us into his life and has been good to us. Him and my sister both work their asses off, and pick up some pretty shady or questionable tasks around the district, in order to pay for the cost of living in our tiny property.

Damon's taught me practically everything I know about survival, about defending myself. He's been as close of a father-figure as I've ever had. When he told me he wanted to get married to Dahlia, I couldn't be happier because they're both good people and he's always felt like family to me anyways. We managed, somewhat, all these years because Dahlia has always put her ass on the line for me to have a decent life in District 7. Because of them both, I was able to grow up into a decent guy, I think. I know a lot of things, I go to school, I didn't end up a serial killer, so as far as I'm concerned, they did right by me and raised me properly.

But I'm not going to start telling all of this to Morgana. As far as she's concerned, we just _manage_.

Morgana is smarter than she lets on, because I'm pretty sure she realizes that I'm stalling. I mean, it doesn't take a genius, but still. I'm impressed when instead of prying, she opens up about her own life.

"I didn't really know my parents. They both died fighting for the rebels in the Dark Days," she starts.

I'm a little weirded out by the fact that she's telling me this, I didn't _ask_ after all, but I listen all the same.

"I don't really get all of this…" she gestures with her hands in a way which encompasses the entire room, "bullshit. I've never had _this_, so it's weird."

I get that. I understand what it's like to feel like you're completely out of place. Hell, I've been feeling this way non-stop since we gotten onto this stupid train. I don't belong in these Games.

Morgana takes a few steps in my direction, clearly uncomfortable but making the effort all the same.

"I kind of hate the rebels for what they did, do you understand me?"

I don't. I can't even begin to understand Morgana. I nod all the same.

"Don't get me wrong, I hate both sides because I've never been allowed to be anything more than a potential threat to our new government. It _sucks_, because my parents caused so much pain, and I didn't even get to know them. I grew up hating the cause they supported as well as the cause they opposed, because they left me to my own devices," she enunciates as though she's telling a story that she's rehearsed, and then abruptly stops, wrapping her arms around her waist, once again.

No matter what she's doing here, she's clearly suffered a metric shitton because of her parents' allegiances.

I find myself relating to this person who, minutes ago, I felt the need to build up internal walls to block out. Again, I don't want to judge too quickly, but I think that if there is one person out there that hates both sides as much as I do, it's _her_. For different reasons but still. It's easy to forget that most people aren't cardboard cut-outs. _Everyone has their reasons_, Damon's voice echoes in my head and I frown, my lips forming a straight line.

"I don't really like talking about this stuff, so don't expect me to open up like this again," Morgana says, a smirk pulling at her lips. I'd be lying if I didn't feel more confused than when we started this conversation, but somehow, I'm more at ease.

"So why are you …um…not to be rude, but you know…why are you telling me all of this?" I ask, unable to keep the lack of comprehension out of my voice.

"I don't really know…I guess I want someone from back home to _understand_," Morgana utters, almost to herself. I don't understand, but I'm one-hundred percent sure she doesn't either. Not completely anyway, and that's fine. We're just kids, trying to figure out our place in this universe, as corny as that sounds.

To come to think of it, I actually _do_ feel better, knowing that someone here knows me a tiny bit, even as superficial as it is.

"Why did you volunteer?" I ask, the tension almost gone from my voice.

"I had my reasons," she says quickly, but then adds, "I thought I was good enough to survive and had nothing to lose, so why not."

I nod. That makes a lot of sense actually. Not that I would do it in a million years, but if I didn't have Damon or Dahlia…maybe. Maybe I would have, you never know. Being alone sucks, as I've come to discover over the course of the last day.

Morgana is socially awkward, perhaps more so with me since I'm younger and she clearly doesn't really know what to make of me, but I still feel like we formed a slight bond during our conversation. I would be lying if I said I understood her reasoning, and the questioning look she gives me indicates that it's the same for her but maybe… maybe we could learn to support each other through this shitty situation.

I decide to ask her, because why not. I risk it, even though I probably already know the answer.

"So… do you want to be allies?" I ask, my voice betraying my nervousness, once again.

Morgana frowns, almost apologetic. "Sorry, no, my plan is to go with the Careers. I wish I could help you, but I think it'll be safer for both of us if we keep it at _this_."

Again, she gestures around herself, waving her arms as though it'll explain what she means better. "And I've trained, so I'm ready. I hope you are too, but I can't ally with you."

"I really appreciated the talk though," she mentions, almost as an after-thought, but I can see in her eyes that she's sincere. I am almost certain she won't be talking about anything even remotely related to her life in District 7 in the near future. That kind of talk doesn't get you into the Career-exclusive alliance.

So that's one thing cleared up. She never had any intention of allying with me, because I'm not trained. I'm nothing like her but she still made an effort to talk to me right now, because of some sort of weird intra-district allegiance we're supposed to have. The fact that she implicitly thinks I'm weak is disheartening, but I appreciate the honesty all the same. I won't let it phase me.

"Sure, alright. Well, good luck mingling with the Careers," I shoot back, and she smiles at me, warmly and sadly. She's clearly apologetic, but she's also not going to back out of her decision.

As more people are whisked into the common room, I catch a glimpse of the other kids who are stuck in this mess with us. Quite a few of them are my age. I wonder what Damon would say about them. I wonder what my mom would. Dahlia always told me our mother had a beautiful voice, and when I think hard, I can hear it in my head. She died when I was too young to actually form any coherent memories, but somehow the melody she sang when she put me to sleep is engraved into the grooves of my brain forever. More than ever, I wish I could talk to someone I trust, so they could counsel me on what my next step should be, because at the end of the day, I'm just a fifteen-year old dude who has no idea what he's doing.

"Hey," Morgana calls after me as I try to shimmy towards the food.

I stop and look back at her.

"Don't forget about your angle. You're a nice kid, but it's all about the way you sell yourself to the crowd," she says, smiling at me. It's a genuine smile, so I smile back.

"Sounds good, you too," I shoot back, sending her some finger-guns along the way. She frowns, but I laugh a little, because no matter what, she's not as scary as she was ten minutes ago. Even though she doesn't want an alliance, I'm sure I can figure something out.

As I take in everyone's costumes, ranging from outrageous to awful, I start making a mental list of the vibes I'm getting from the different teenagers I see. Some are terrified, some are playing it cool, others are downright excited to be here. They've all got different approaches, playing them up for the audience that is about to greet them.

Morgana's right, it's all about the angle you play. Damon has often told me it's the way people perceive you that makes you or breaks you. Even though it kills me to bring up the tragedy of my childhood for the sake of sympathy, to use my brother's horrible death as a crutch to stay relevant, maybe my story will strike a chord in the Capitol audiences' hearts. Maybe they'll see my family did not back away from helping their forces, despite the horrible price we paid after.

I'd be the last person to vocally support the Capitol on a regular day, but the fact of the matter is that my sister Dahlia remembers the exact night when the rebels broke into our home. My mother was pregnant with me at the time, my brother Aiden was three and Dahlia was five. The rebels forced our entire family into the backyard, threatened my mother. Just after, they punctuated their message as they bashed Aiden's head in, by swinging him by the legs into the small concrete wall that delineated our garden. My entire family had to watch. That's how I know the details so vividly… my sister Dahlia never really got over the incident.

Only a few months later when I was born, Peacekeepers came and shot both my parents, because they got intel that the Arteficavitch family held a rebel meeting in their yard. My sister and I escaped by hiding in the attic. These armed men who were supposed to protect civilians like us didn't want to hear that this so-called _meeting_ was nothing more than the rebels barging into our house uninvited and killing an infant in cold blood, as retribution for us betraying a cause we never signed up to support in the first place. It didn't matter that we saved a Capitol soldier and nursed him back to health. No one really listened to what any of us had to say.

I lost both my parents and Dahlia lost her childhood, so as far as I'm concerned, both sides committed monstrosities against our family. But I won't ever say that. I won't say that to a single soul, I'll act like a good Capitol-supporting citizen and maybe they'll let me live.

If I play my cards right, I might be able to spin a story from this.

* * *

_Notes: Here's the lovely Logan from District 7! All-round cool guy who doesn't have an ounce of an idea as to what he's supposed to be doing! But hey, he's staying positive. _

_Let me know what you think of him. Do you have any idea as to whom he might ally with? _

_On a completely unrelated note, Greetings from Halifax! I apologize about the wait for this chapter, and I just wanted to say that I've got a week of vacation, and am hoping to update every few days to make up for the longer wait-time for Logan's section. Next chapter, you're going to dive deeper into the mind of the one-and-only Morgana. How did you like her, from the glimpse you got in this chapter?_

_Peace and love. _


	17. Chapter 14: District 7 Morgana Foster

**Morgana Foster**

**District 7 Female, 18  
****Chariot preparation  
**

* * *

I see Logan distancing himself from me, and I feel bad about this entire situation. I'm not a terrible person, objectively. I just… I guess I've always just wanted something _more_ out of life. And I can't start going soft at the first opportunity these Games throw at me. He's a nice kid, but I know he'd slow me down. In the end, only one of us can win this and I need it to be me. I've trained for this since I was twelve, so by all means, I'm as much of a Career as anyone.

What I told Logan is true, I don't have anyone out there for me. No living family to grieve my actions once this hell-show gets on the road. I don't have any friends either, and that might be because I've had too much on my plate ever since I knew how to write my name, or maybe I just suck. I don't have any significant connections, and the ones I do are always fleeting in the grand scheme of things.

Sunhdit, our mentor, has been the one person that believed in my potential, and I guess it was the same for me. We were both rejects, chewed right through and spat out by a District that wanted nothing to do with us. For her, it was because she straight-up plunged off the deep end a few years after her victory, and I'm not too sure what caused it, but I never bothered to ask. For me, it was due to the fact that I was too small and too angry and too stupid to realize when to stop, when it came to breaking into households and stealing shit.

The truth of the matter is that I couldn't keep it in my pants when it came to food. I've always been obsessed with eating and food, maybe because I never had enough of it in my formative years. The starvation, the gut-destroying hunger… those are the memories that stick with me the most from the war and the awful community-home bouncing that came afterwards. Maybe it's a testament to how fucked up I truly am, but the fact of the matter is that I crave proper and reliable sustenance harder than I crave a sense of belonging, a family or glory. For me, food is the real fucking deal when it comes to getting enjoyment out of life.

It sucks and I'm pretty ashamed of it, and that's why I'm awkwardly hovering way too far from the tables loaded with plates. I should get a move on, I _know_ that. All of the kids who come from Career districts and that one girl from District 3 are all there, so if I ever want to showcase my skills, I need to get on with the program. I need to act normal.

I see dishes I've never even dreamt of before, let alone tasted, and somehow that ratchets up my anxiety higher than this upcoming stupid chariot ride ever could. As I survey these tiny delectable fishes on crackers, sandwiches, strawberries and other tiny fruits I had no idea actually existed, there's a part of me that can't stop going back to the day when Sunhdit caught me, rummaging her fridge. I was all elbows, crooked knees and starving feral eyes when she barged in on me stealing from her house.

I remember trying to hit her, and she was so drunk and high that she let me. I dislocated my thumb because I had no idea how to punch back then, and she just laughed in my face. I cried a lot that night, because I had felt so _helpless_. Without even trylng, she just immobilized me there, inebriated out of her mind, and kept telling me I couldn't beat her even if I tried. Without letting go of my arms, she took me to her living room and sat down on her sofa. She started telling me a story about a child she lost that made zero sense and I don't exactly remember what happened, but she fell asleep with me pinned down awkwardly in that chair.

I don't know if it's the potential promise of food hanging in the air, or the fact that she held me like her own child in an embrace that could only be described as heartbreaking and only a little bit creepy, but I ended up staying. Her vice-like grip on my arms was also incentive enough.

When she woke up, she had a wicked hangover and I remember helping her to the bathroom as she promised to make me breakfast if I stayed with her for a little while longer. She kept calling me Aleyah. It was worth it in the end because she fed me, and asked me who I actually was. Back then, I was bouncing from orphanage to foster home to community center and so on. I kind of hung out around her place after that, when shit got tough. She didn't let me settle at her house permanently, far from it, but she didn't try to ring my neck every time I showed up, and I hollered at the Peacekeeper medics every time she overdosed or hit her head too hard when she lost track of what's up and down. I saved her ass just as many times as she saved mine. So overall, I feel like we had a pretty sweet deal going on.

When I watched the Games at the community center, I realized that's where I belonged. Even now, staring at all these other kids who are competing with me, I think it was the right decision. I asked Sunhdit to train me and she did, in the best way she could. I think she saw something in me, or maybe she just had nothing better to do. We fought a lot, but I took care of her when she got up to no good, and she offered her house as a training ground and her advice to a kid that literally had more pent up anger than anyone she knew.

It worked out, because I'm here now, right? And as far as I know, training centers in the Career districts only popped up about six or seven years ago and I'm right there with them.

I survey the area once more. When we boarded the train, Logan was so petrified he locked himself in his room before Sunhdit even had the chance to talk to him. Better for me, since I got to watch the recaps with her and hear her opinion about most of the people that are slowly trickling into this room. The District 4 tributes aren't hear yet, and neither are the District 11s and 12s. The rest are awkwardly standing around, some are making small talk and others looking extra-defensive, daring anyone to come close. I know most of the alliances are formed once we start our three days of training, so I have plenty of time to establish myself as part of the Careers, but there's no harm in setting the right foot forward at this little gathering.

But then I glance back to the food and it's so tantalizing. Who knew food could give off such sexy vibes…

The Careers are right there too, but they're all just hovering there, taking a few bite-sized snacks here and there and my stomach growls because _holy shit_ do these people act privileged. I remind myself I'm gonna have to be part of _that_ squad if I want to have a chance to survive this. There's no harm in making my presence known right now.

I eye the tiny pieces of bread and meat and my stomach decides this for me.

Fuck it, I'm going in, and they're gonna fucking _like_ it.

I approach the table confidently, keeping my shoulders straight and my eyes neutral. I don't want to look too antagonistic, but I also don't want them to count me out on account of looking scared or uneasy.

It kind of feels like I'm in one of those low-tier spy movies I've watched with Sunhdit once or twice, where the hero has that zoom-and-enhance feature when a specific target appears. I could almost imagine myself walking in slow motion, eyes on the prize. My target? The crackers with little brown mysterious blobs and little decorative red and white flakes on top. I try one uncertainly, and swallow. It's fishy, but it's great.

I shove the fishy bites into my mouth, stuffing myself with this greasy amazing goodness and momentarily forget where I am. I could stay here all fucking day, and I don't even care if I burst out of these stupid pants from overeating, this experience is already worth it.

In between mouthfuls of a spread I don't even know the name of, I notice another pair of hands grabbing at the small bread squares near my left hand.

I look up, and a pair of large expressive dark brown eyes stare right back at me.

I maintain eye contact as the girl staring directly into my face comes closer. At first, it's a weird fucking game of asserting dominance and I feel deep internalized embarrassment at my sloppy lack of restraint, but I keep at it. At the orphanage, being the 'alpha' was kind of a big deal, and after training, I would be lying if I said I wasn't the alpha-est bitch in the place. I know it's different here, I'm among people who are trained killers, for fuck's sake, but still.

A few seconds pass and the awkwardness gradually goes away. The girl has a smile tugging at her lips and I can't help but smile back.

"Somehow, I never figured that the food would be the best part of this whole thing, eh?" the girl asks, mirroring exactly what I'm thinking.

"Right?" I answer, as I shove a richly stuffed bun directly into my mouth. The shame at my behavior dissipates, because I somehow feel deep down in my heart that this girl _gets_ it. She picks out an especially delicious looking bun identical to mine in everything but color and also tastes it. Her movements are confident, easy-going and exude Career-like vibes without the crappy arrogance that often comes with, you know, being a Career.

"All of the _guys_ are there talking and getting to know each other, but I think the real opportunists are found near the food," the girl remarks, and I find myself nodding along, chewing.

I see the other Careers politely interacting, the boy from District 1 laughing politely at something the boy from District 2 said. They're getting along nicely, I think. Yeah, I think I'm going to fit right in, if they let me.

"I'm Seeva, District 2," the girl adds, extending her right arm in a friendly manner. She laughs as I struggle to transfer the contents of my right hand into my left so I can shake her hand. My face heats up, only slightly.

"I'm Morgana, District 7," I reply. I already know her name, but it's good to, you know, introduce yourself like a real human being. I'm one hundred percent certain she knows my name and district as well, seeing as I volunteered, but I still felt the need to clarify, to add at least an ounce of normalcy to this interaction.

"So, enjoying your stay so far?" she asks, chewing with her mouth open which is decidedly something a Career who was apprehensive or threatened by my presence would never do. She seems to stay calm around an outsider like me, so I take that as a good sign.

"Yeah the food's to die for," I deadpan, and we both chuckle.

"A woman after my own heart," she says and winks at me and we laugh wholeheartedly, attracting the attention of the others momentarily.

"It's weird how my first genuine interaction is about food, of all things," she says as she passes a hand through her curly short hair.

"Yeah, if the arena's anything like the one from three years ago, I might just declare that my token is a fully-stocked fridge and bring that shit into the arena," I say, internally weirded out at how many words are pouring out of my mouth even though I've only met this person twenty seconds ago.

"You talk like an expert, no wonder you volunteered," Seeva says appraisingly, adding quickly "stocking up is a great idea, not gonna lie."

I've got pockets in my pants, I realize, and we both get the same idea. We look around and notice protein bars in packets nearby. We both reach for one bar, then two, and pull them into our costumes. She gives me a conspiratorial look and shoves some more protein bars into her cleavage, as I smuggle some packets into the large pockets of my cargo pants. We grin in synchrony like two mischievous children and look around, but no one is paying attention to us, too stressed out by the upcoming parade or too focused on appearing tough to care.

The last of the tributes enter the room, looking extra confused, and a weird electronic noise makes all of us turn our heads to the source, an old-looking intercom on the wall.

"Two minutes until showtime. I repeat two minutes until showtime," a static voice succinctly announces and most of the teenagers around me stand up straighter, eyes wide, stress levels rising, no doubt.

"Good luck on the chariots," she says, mimicking shit falling out of her pockets in an exaggerated manner. "I'll see you around!"

I laugh back, "You too!". I actually feel a lot better about all of this, going in.

While I keep my face perfectly constructed into a mask of easy-going contentment, I'm internally whooping from joy. I fucking did it! I talked to a Career and they didn't totally reject my ass right off the bat! Hell! Fucking! Yes!

A Capitolite enters the room and the tension goes up by about fifty percent as we all stare at his face expectantly. He rudely interrupts my internal congratulations of my own refined abilities of not fucking up during a social interaction, but that's just the way these things go, don't they?

"The Chariots Parade is about to begin! Please take your designated places and you will be led to your horses. Don't loiter around longer than necessary," he exclaims loudly, and we all instinctively form a line.

"This isn't school, children! Make your way to the hangar, quickly! Quickly!"

We are rushed to what could only be referred to as stables, and a crazy-looking woman with a huge number seven plastered on her front comes careening towards me. She already has Logan by the arm, and she grabs hold of mine and drags me to a carriage.

Our horses are a deep beautiful chestnut color and I marvel at the sight.

"Wow, these are majestic," Logan mutters under his breath and smiles as I look at him. He's really a nice kid.

"The horses look better than we do," I mutter, and Logan nods at me all while smiling and once again, I get a pang of guilt at rejecting him earlier.

"Hey, you gonna be okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah, I think we just need to hold onto the railing, and we won't fall off," he starts, talking about the Chariot Parade. That's not at all what I'm talking about.

"No, I mean like, in the Games. Did you talk to anyone in there?" I prod, aware of the fact that it's approximately none of my business whatsoever.

"Yeah don't worry about it, I'll be fine," he says smiling lightly, and I see his eyes flicker to the District 9 boy. Geoff. He volunteered too, even though he's younger than me. Older than Logan.

I assess him as a fairly decent competitor and nod in approval, even though Logan didn't confirm or deny his interaction with the boy.

I turn around, and see Seeva smile brightly at me all the way from the front. Her district partner, Luther narrows his eyes at me, but also smiles and waves in what could only be described as the most psychopathic handwave of all time. There's even the classic slow blink as the cherry on the cake. He's probably a chill guy.

Logan notices immediately, this guy is way too observant for his own good, and claps me lightly on the back. I struggle to not flinch away from the unwanted physical contact.

"I see you're making progress already," he says conversationally, and I'm simultaneously pissed off that I'm so transparent, proud that my plan is clearly working if others are noticing and guilty that I'm not including the one person who is the closest to me in the arena in this plan.

"Yeah," I reply helpfully, and he clearly sees this as a sign to drop the matter.

"Even though you're not allying with me, it doesn't mean we have to look like scary uncommunicating cardboard cut-outs, when we roll out for all of the Capitol to see," he remarks, and I nod along.

"Even though our costumes look like crap, I'm sure we'll dazzle them with our natural looks."

He giggles, looking so young and innocent in that moment.

"Now I'm really regretting not eating on the train and back there in that room. The worst thing about being reaped is the social anxiety that comes along," he mutters under his breath as he pales when he hears the roar of the crowd somewhere above us.

"Hey, I signed up for this crap and I'm still shitting myself when it comes to human interaction," I reply eloquently, because sometimes there's nothing like colorful language to really drive the point home. I'm fucking awkward, is the point, and I think he sees that, but he's hungry and I came prepared.

I pull out a protein bar out of my pocket, and his eyes light up when I offer it to him.

"I got more where that came from, so if you ever need a snack mid-parade, let me know," I tell him, as he scarfs it down.

"You tell anyone about my secret infinite stash of food in these miracle pants and I swear I'll kill you," I deadpan, but the transparent fear in his eyes makes me specify that I'm just kidding. Tough crowd.

I clap him on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile and he loosens up a little bit, smiling at me once again.

"You ready for this?"

"Born ready," I answer but I mimic falling off the cart, reminding myself of Seeva's own clowning gestures during our previous conversation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to the tributes of the thirteenth Hunger Gaaaaaames!"

Our chariot starts moving right after the District 6 chariot, pulled by white horses. Both tributes look terrified, the girl scratching compulsively at her arms and wildly gnashing her jaws out of fear. Another volunteer, Daisy. She didn't look good at the reaping, and she looks almost worse now. The boy, although I only see the back of his head, seems to radiate that specific energy that comes with being completely resigned to one's fate.

It only takes a few seconds for us to reach the lip of the stables, leading us to the huge Parade track above.

The noise is deafening, and the lights burn my retinas, leaving me momentarily blinded, but I wave, trying to appear strong and resolute. That's the angle I'm going for.

I acknowledge Logan, who is playing a goofier, funnier and more excited character, and I'm glad he's got his trope figured out.

While I knew exactly what I was signing up for, after years of training, the full experience hits me in the face as we race on the track, for all of Panem to see.

Even though I'll do my very best to sway the outcome in my favor, no matter what happens, this is going to be one hell of a ride.

* * *

_Notes: You guys, here's Morgana, the beautiful strong and reliably cringe-lady from District 7! Let me know what you think of this gal, because I love her dearly. Also, can we all give a round of applause to yours truly, who has been writing these chapters at the speed of light? Hell yes, I'm proud of myself for this tiny achievement. I'm just joking…I just hope you all are enjoying the chapters so far and I've got lots of cool stuff planned out for the future chapters. _

_Let me know your thoughts, and next up, the parade will be in full swing with Jean from District 8. If I don't get eaten by sharks in the ocean of the East Coast that is...dun dun dun. _

_Peace and love. _


	18. Chapter 15: District 8 Jean Taylor

**Jean Taylor **

**District 8 Male, 16  
****Chariot Parade**

* * *

The horses lurch forward and it takes all the strength in my arms to hold onto the railing on our chariot. Bexley, my district partner, has the same death-grip on the bar, scowling as though that'll make the situation any better.

We don't have a mentor, so we've got approximately _zero_ clue as to what we should be doing. Figuratively, we're going into this blind as a bat. Still, I… I actually think I have a chance at this. The moment I was reaped, it felt like the entire world was conspiring against me, trying to squash me out before I had the chance to really do anything with my life.

Before, I had dreams of becoming a tailor. It might sound stupid to all the kids who dream of bigger things, who strive to innovate and learn about the universe, the science behind our existence, but for _me_ it was always about the creation of clothes, which are the truest outward projections of who we are, inside. It's a hell-of-a-lot stereotypical, especially for someone coming from District 8, but that's what I always had to offer and wished to become. The best tailor of Panem. Especially apt, considering my last name.

It's that hope to create, that unyielding spark within me that aligns with what the residents of the Capitol believe in, that's been keeping me from completely descending into the same soul-wrenching pessimism Bexley seems to be stuck in.

That's probably why I've been able to cope as well as I did. Once I got over the initial shock of being reaped, it's been quite the experience. The food, the escort Lucretia who actually turned out to be a really decent lady, the vast wardrobe array of clothes…everything's been impeccable. If you forget I'm a few days away from participating in a death match, then shit isn't looking half-bad. Does my brain feel sometimes like it's going to fry itself worrying about all the possible outcomes of this? Yep. Absolutely. But there's nothing I can do about that.

On the bright side, I've meticulously surveyed most of the tributes, during the Reaping recaps and the buffet we had, before we got settled into our chariots. I know that I'm not nearly the weakest guy here.

If everything goes wonderfully and I somehow miraculously coast without ever running into those trained psycho-children with a knack for murder who call themselves the Careers, the rest of the competition might not be totally unbeatable. I genuinely like to think that with the right preparation, I might actually be ready for what's to come.

I've even met a couple of nice people out there too, and I'm planning on officially asking them to ally with me, once training starts. I'm being _pro-active_, that's all, I'm trying to stay positive.

Even though my insides feel like they will burst out of me from the sheer stress of this. I keep it under control because that's what tributes who _win_ usually do. Control is the key.

Geoff from District 9 seems really cool and spontaneous, and he mentioned Logan somewhere along the lines. I still don't know what their skills are, but that's what training time is for. I'm ready to analyze and observe, and I'm sure we'd form an alliance that would fly under the radar, compared to the Careers, but that we wouldn't be counted out of the competition too easily either.

That's kind of my strategy, I think. I've watched the Games enough times with my best friend Safia to know that that's the only way a guy like me could survive. No one thought Triss from Five could do it, but he was extravagant, fun and everyone underestimated him, and I can be kind-of the same?

Not too similar, since he won last year and I don't want to be boring or repetitive…but for god's sake, I'm trying, aren't I!? I think I can be original enough, taking into account what I've seen in previous Games.

As our chariot comes closer and closer to being presented to the crowd, I can't help but grasp at any memory of home I have. I can't stop thinking of Mr. Belcher, the old tailor who I worshipped at first, and then worked for. All I can think of is his face replacing every single Capitolite that is going to be scrutinizing me once our chariot arrives into the designated area, commenting on the fabrics, the folds and the sutures within my intricate costume. Even as I was getting dressed, his characteristic voice and southern accent from the depths of District 11 echoed through my head as I admired myself in the mirror. He's an old man, with bright tasteful clothes and round glasses, and he taught me everything I know.

Whenever he caught me and Safia watching the Games at the back of his little shop instead of helping to tidy it up, Mr. Belcher would rub at his dark shaved face in disappointment. My best friend preferred the action, the stories within the Games, but I was always fascinated by the beautiful clothes, the fabrics which drowned the tributes in riches beyond their wildest dreams, and even though he'd never admit it, I think that's why Mr. Belcher hired me as an assistant in the first place. It was that or the constant loitering, tailing him around with wide eyes, a goofy smile and lots of overly specific questions about all things fashion-related. Either way, while I lack a mentor right now, it's funny that disobeying my employer and sneaking around watching the Games with Safia just might be the thing that saves me here.

With a lurching feeling in my stomach, I realize that if I screw this up, if I die, I won't ever go back to Mr. Belcher's tailor shop. I won't ever run my hands through the fabrics from which the old man fabricated the most beautiful suits, which would then be shipped off to be worn by the Capitol's finest. Safia will cry, surely. I already saw the despair and grief in my aunt and uncle's eyes, so I know they'll mourn. As though our family didn't lose enough members to the Dark Days. These reasons are precisely why I need to figure this out and come back alive.

I need to painstakingly comb through all of my skills and weaknesses, do the same with every tribute here in order to maximize my chances. I need to know everything inside out. But tonight, I realize I can give myself a break. I can indulge a little bit in this fashion show that is occurring before my very eyes. A fashion show of which I am the star…

While our chariot is picking up speed and racing towards the track, a series of neat questions pop up in the back of my brain. I wonder, how many of these suits worn by the Capitolites cheering for us in the stands are made by Mr. Belcher's crafty hands? How many have I personally helped him design? What fabrics did we use, and do these people care, or are their eyes simply on the price tags and not the work that went into creating the masterpieces they wear? My reveries of satin and crepe-de-chine evaporate before my very eyes, as our chariot passes the boundaries of the Parade track.

It looks like millions of candy wrappers are standing, on the edge of their seats. Thousands of fabrics, hundreds of styles and dozens of different hair colors mesh together to create a spectacle of absolutely extravagant colorful cacophony.

My jaw drops at the sight.

"It's so goddamn beautiful," I breathe, even though no one can hear me over the mad screams and whistles coming from the crowd that is overwhelming all of my senses. Now _this_ is what you call an audience.

Pose, pose, pose, pose.

I wave my hands, and I'd be strutting up and down the chariot if there was any space, since I have so much nervous energy to spare. I don't look _nervous_ though. I look like someone who is having the time of their life, absorbing the praise of the audience and reflecting their energy back at them ten-fold. If I'm anything, it's a goddamn amazing performer.

The cameras are flashing, and I'd be lying if I didn't absolutely love the undivided attention I'm getting. I know Bexley hates it, but that's really too bad for her. _She might be dead, in a few days-time,_ a dark voice in the back of my head reminds me. And yeah, I goddamn know that, but I wish she'd have a better time while she's still alive. That's what _I'm_ doing. But I plan on living through this, I remind myself. She probably already made peace with her death, trying to bring everyone else down with her.

I'm planning and figuring things out, even without a mentor. I offered to help her, but she declined. I know she's only a year older than me, but she sulks around like a begrudging parent whose kids have been misbehaving and I'm kind of through with that.

I have my mind on larger things.

As our trusty steeds race on the track, the first chariot begins its ascent to the designated spotlight. All of our chariots must pass there, in order to be admired by the entire crowd.

The District 1 tributes are racing ahead, their beautiful white and silver flowy attire waving in the artificially-created wind. The boy is strong and unwavering, smiling tightly at the crowd and showing off his lean and prominent muscles of his arms. Lycra, I think to myself, as the girl twirls around to take in the crowd. The fabric _has_ to be lycra from the way it hugs her, while still looking comfortable. Little jewels are sewn in a way that reminds me of dew drops.

The District 2 pair look elegant and mature in matching golden warrior outfits. While the previous tributes' gowns were distinctly designed to complement their gender-specific attributes, the armor for the man and woman from the masonry district is unisex. Both look regal and war-like, but the girl does a small dance as the audience cheers for her and screams something I don't quite catch. She's eating up the attention and I can't help but giggle.

The Threes manage to pull off spandex leotards patterned with bright electric circuits. Nothing interesting nor original here. Nonetheless, the boy looks simultaneously frightened and exhilarated, waving at the crowd. The girl is a stone wall, while managing to look strikingly beautiful in the luminescent aura surrounding her. She doesn't flinch at the noise and the clamor. I can't tell from this distance, but I can imagine her eyes radiating the quiet self-absorbed pride that comes with commandeering everyone's attention. The girl's wild hair has colorful wires weaving through it, which light up her entire face. The pair gather a decent amount of cheers.

District 4 has polarizing costumes this year. The girl looks beautiful and fierce, her eyes flitting over the crowd with a condescending look. I can't help but gawk at ripples and waves created by a material that even I can't place. I file this away under one of the cool aspects of the Parade to share with Lucretia and fawn over together afterwards. The girl's dress is a feat of design, engineering and god-knows what else because it honestly looks like real water on her slim form. The boy…well, the poor child has been dressed up as a lobster, decked out with lobster claws and a tail. His dark ginger hair comes out in tufts out of the hole cut out for his face. He looks more embarrassed than terrified, and half-heartedly waves his claw at the ladies who make gestures of wanting to pinch him by the cheeks. They squeak in adoration, so I guess his costume, while a stylistic flop, has earned him a couple of admirers.

The District 5 pair might just have the most creatively elaborate and thematic ensemble of us all. The boy has his eyes in a blindfold and his hair beautifully arranged around his head. In his left hand, he holds a mighty sword, and in his right, scales that he balances loftily for all to see. The girl's different colored eyes are highlighted by the fact that the entire left side of her body is painted in dark colors, while her right is made up to look radiant and beautiful. Together, the pair's costumes are a stylized representation or homage to the gods of death and justice. I'm actually blown away by the concept, and the two tributes pull off the act very nicely.

The girl from District 6 looks like she wants to cover up as much of her skin as possible. I don't see her face, but I see her hunched over as much as she can, trying to assemble together the tatters of her dress in what one could only read as utter distress. Both of the tributes have large black tires around their waists and not much else apart from the white dresses that cover a bare minimum. Large gears look like they have been hastily glued onto their heads as well as on the horses. The boy looks up as though frightened when the crowd cheers weakly for them. He flinches at every flower thrown… It's not a nice look.

District 7 is similarly disappointing, but the tributes hold themselves a lot more confidently. Logan, the boy Geoff talked about, seems to be goofing around, not minding the blandness of his ensemble. I think it's really too bad some stylists don't try harder. There are so many tricks that I know of that can emulate wood or the forest, and heck, I'm only sixteen! I mean…flannel for a parade…come on. The girl is stoic and stands straight, and the crowd eats them both up. They're a breath of fresh air after District 6's perceived lack of showman skills, no doubt.

Then it's our turn! My excitement bubbles over and I wave at anyone and everyone because we've got the spotlight for the next 40 meters. Our Ankara colorful capes billow behind us, the reds, blues and yellows creating patterns to rival those seen in big production movies. We look like royalty, but our crowns are made up of thick silver needles, with golden threads running through our hair and around our arms. If I say so myself, our costumes are tastefully made, revealing just enough while letting us put on our own show. We got lucky this time, because last year, our tributes were decked out in fully knitted dresses adorned with balls of yarn, which literally covered them from head to toe. Needless to say, it looked atrocious. For once, I make the most of it while Bexley glares, her arms crossed against her chest. I don't let my ridiculous crooked smile fall even once, as though my life depends on it. It probably does.

I turn back as soon as we pass the show spot, eager to look at the tributes coming after me.

District 9 is next, and Geoff looks badass in yellow. While his outfit is simple enough, his curly light hair is made up intricately. As is custom, wheat is incorporated into his costume. The little girl's dress is entirely made out of wheat and she seems unable to move much in it, out of fear of having it disassemble before everyone's eyes. She smiles meekly at the crowd though, waving her tiny arms at the Capitolites that pass by before her eyes.

District 10 looks formidable this year, the boy appearing particularly strong. District 10 is the livestock district, and we've had costumes ranging from cows, to cowboys, to poultry, to roasted lamb, the latter of which was equal parts tasteless and morbid. This year, they're dressed as birds, but the stylist somehow made both tributes look phenomenal. They don't look like livestock to me, while still honoring their district's economy. The boy doesn't have much on, and I wince internally because it must not be _fun_, being paraded near-naked like that. At the same time, _damn_ the guy is jacked! He flexes his muscles and I can literally see throngs of Capitol women swooning. I smirk and look at Bexley, who also looks at me with a ghost of a smile at her lips. The girl is smiling wickedly at the crowd and she looks absolutely breathtaking. She is _rocking_ that feather dress, swinging from side to side and batting her arms in a way that suggests she might fly away. More than ever, I wish I could have my old sketchbook with me, to jot down this design.

When District 10 passes, the excitement dies down a little with it. The District 11 tributes look sad in comparison, ultimately unimpressive. The girl is feisty and attractive, and her costume is beautiful as well, albeit not as original as the previous girl's. I squint at the large screen in order to make out the details. She has a fruit basket on top of her head, cherries hanging from her ears, and a beautiful green flowing dress. I can only imagine how the silk feels on her skin! She is small, but she attracts the attention of the crowd by deftly juggling the three fruits in her hands. Her district partner is tiny and sad, and I attribute the lack of clamor for them to the absolutely depressing aura surrounding him. Nothing really to say there.

District 12 is last, and I strain my neck in order to see them. The tributes look strong, and both are dressed in revealing outfits. Clearly their stylist swears by the motto "when lacking originality, cranking up the sex-factor to a hundred". While the girl seems to enjoy the freedom that comes from the painted-on black dust which covers up strategic areas, the boy stands dark and brooding, his own paint white and starkly disruptive against his skin. It does have a fairly cool effect, if you forget for a second that they're both teenagers standing almost completely uncovered in front of an audience of goddamn old people and screaming kids. They've both got mining lamps on top of their heads, and the girl throws down hers, as though rejecting the mere idea of working in a mine. She then proceeds to blow suggestive kisses at the men and women in the crowd. She has the smile of a shark, and I don't like it one bit.

And like this, all of the districts have passed under the spotlight and the track goes darker as we race to our finish line, where we will listen to the President give his speech. My lips involuntarily recoil at admiring this entire spectacle, because _he's_ going to be there. It would be an understatement to say that President Daemeon is not well-liked in our household.

"Welcome to the Capitol, _honored_ guests."

The President's booming voice commandeers the attention of the entire crowd, as everyone stands and hangs onto his every word. If I was even an ounce more brave or suicidal, I would sneer at the insincerity of his words. Honoured, sure. Thanks for the opportunity to get goddamn eviscerated on live television! But no, that's how you get _shot_. Any murmur of dissidence gets a bullet in your skull for your troubles, as my mother quickly found out.

I think back to how this parade used to be an opportunity for the Capitol to ridicule the tributes. That's why the stylists so often dressed their tributes into the most awful costumes. There cannot be another reason to waste cloth and fabric in such a grotesque manner, apart from intentionally inflicting the worst humiliation on the tributes, I'm convinced.

I don't remember it, but Safia told me that she watched a rerun where the rebellion-associated tributes were assaulted with rotten tomatoes, dead fish and the likes. The animosity towards the districts quieted down about six years ago, and unless the tributes are especially vocal about their rebellious ties, the Capitol audiences leave it at that. I mean…I saw it for myself. They cheered for us regardless of affiliation, since I'm sure we've got our fair share of Capitol sympathizers as well as rebel supporters in our year. I know for a fact that some of the hostility remains, but I've also seen with my own eyes that the stylists actually _try_, nowadays, District 5 case in point. I'm sure that if they designed to impress with the chariot costumes, they'll really pull out all the stops for the interviews, and I find myself looking forward to viewing the more classical gowns and suits that we'll all be wearing in a few days short. I strategically block out the fact that the day after, I might be dead.

Either way, I zone out just as the President drones on and on about how awfully the rebellion affected our glorious country, and how we should be honored to be the sacrifice that leads us all collectively into a better future. A pile of stinking District 10 horseshit, if you ask me, but I keep my eyes up, focusing instead on the President's dark blue tie.

Tomorrow training begins.

Tomorrow is when I need to get my shit together and find an alliance that is going to work for me. Even as the speech drags on, I mentally start preparing the kind of conversations I'm bound to have, coming up with witty tag lines and funny retorts to what people might ask.

After all, everything that can go wrong will go wrong, as it's been clearly demonstrated by yours truly being reaped. I might as well form as many contingency plans as possible and make the best out of the time I have before I'm thrust in the thick of it all.

* * *

_Notes: I don't even know how, but this chapter was SO hard to write. I guess I literally have approximately negative knowledge when it comes to style, fabrics and yada yada so writing Jean was a heckin' challenge, but I did it! Let me know what you think of this young stylistic fiend from District 8. Next up, Bexley. You'll finally know what her deal is, mouahahaha…_

_Please pretty please, keep reviewing, I know I sound like a desperate broken record but it really makes me happy and lets me gage which submitters are still reading! A big thanks to those that do. _

_Peace and love. _


	19. Chapter 16: District 8 Bexley Ward

**Bexley Ward**

**District 8 Female, 17  
****First Night at the Capitol  
**

* * *

There's a couple of things people need to know about me. The first is that I really _really_ don't like when things don't go according to plan. The plan being me, living a nice life in a good neighborhood, minding my own damn business. The second thing is that I'm a goddamn master of improvisation, so when said "plan" inevitably goes to shit at every twist and turn, I'm usually able to wiggle myself out of whatever mess that comes up. I've been doing it for seventeen years and counting. Bex's got everything under control. Usually.

The problem with the Hunger Games is that there's not even a pinhole-sized opportunity I can seize which can guarantee the best outcome. That outcome being me winning this shit, with minimal emotional and physical damage. None at all. No goddamn way to ensure this, and it's frankly stressing the living shit out of me. I know it's hectic for all of us, all twenty-four kids that are here.

Jean deals with it by over-compensating on the 'bedazzle' factor, cozying up to our escort as though that'll save his life. I deal by trying to incinerate anything that moves with my eyes. I haven't even met the other tributes properly yet, but I can sense the fear and the misery wafting through our ranks like the stench of charred factory chemicals spilt on the road. I come from District 8, so I'd know.

I've been watching the other tributes at the chariots. I know quite a couple were watching me back, and it's almost comforting to see my own internal struggle reflected right back at me. We're all losing our shit, slowly but surely.

And then there's the grossly unavoidable challenge of me and Jean having approximately zero guidance whatsoever, because our run-down district couldn't even produce a Victor, in all these years that the Games have been implemented. Tough fucking luck for me, it seems!

So, when the President finally stops blabbering about how we all should be grateful for this opportunity we are presented with by our great nation, I can't help but smolder and fume. I'm actively trying not to spontaneously combust under the scalding lights, the stupid makeup caking my face and my internal rage simmering at the surface. The anger, the betrayal registers in spikes in my pulsating brain, as though I'm going to burst in flames right here and now, in front of the thousands of Capitolites watching. I haven't been this angry in a very long time.

The truth is I don't want anyone here to die. I don't want to die. So, I'm at a bit of a fucking impasse, if I say so myself. So, sue me for not being all chippy and jolly and playing the fiddle for these dicks.

I speak three languages, not that that matters anymore. That's really _something_ in a place like Panem, by the way. Can barely write in one, but hey, a girl's trying her best. Despite appearance to the contrary, I'm a goddamn _valuable_ citizen in this backwards country. I'm one of the few people willing to forget the past, move on and just get shit running so we can all have a decent life. I couldn't give a rat's ass about what happened before. My entire family got obliterated during the war, my parents died, my brother died and I'm still here, not blaming anyone strictly speaking…outwardly at least. I know how this dumb fucking game works. I literally fought tooth and nail to secure my stable position in my District, I kept my head down and I worked so that I can provide a good future for the family I found along the way. For my ragtag team of misfits.

It's incredibly infuriating to think that all of this was snatched up and put on a shelf I can't quite reach. It's as though someone took all my dreams and aspirations, shoved them in a shoe box and put it so high up in the closet that little pathetic Bex can only jump up in the futile attempt to get those things back. Or maybe I'm the one trapped on that high-up shelf, unable to get down, soon to be forgotten. The moment my name was called, I was taken away from my kids as though I'm a rag doll and these Capitol assholes all want to play.

My mind races back to Eira, Renzo. To the twins, Helena and Neve. To little Khalon. Under the pretext of me _serving_ my country in order to keep the cogs in this obese and sickening machine well-oiled, my kids are going to lose me. Frankly, it's fucking unacceptable, because I… I've always worked _so_ hard.

This rage, this confusion… it boils down to the fact that my brain just keeps coming back to the irrelevant argument that people like me _can't_ just be snatched up like this. The rational part of my brain understands that this was just dumb misfortune, but the other part rebels with every fiber of my being. If there was even an _ounce_ of justice, my kids wouldn't be stuck without a guardian once again… this is exactly what our government pretends to want to prevent with all their propaganda ads and reforms and shit. Yet, it happens year after year.

The worst part is that I'm grief-stricken at the idea of me dying, because of the underlying injustice, but also because that means my kids would probably end up on the streets again. Eira, my right hand and probably the most loving girl in the whole of Panem… she's only fifteen. And while I'm a workhorse, the powerhouse or whatever you want to call it, she's a lot more delicate. I've pieced this family together, given it my all. She has as well, but we both know she can't hold it together. She isn't built like me, and she couldn't convince the nearest senile homeless asshole that she's eighteen, let alone the Peacekeepers which would give her a job permit.

I've been eighteen on paper ever since I blew out the candles on the tiny piece of chocolate cake Eira purchased for me with god knows how much money, on my fifteenth birthday. But that's not her. She can't do that, and I'd never ask it of her.

The Parade ends even as my mind is consumed with the faces of my loved ones, memories and fragments of my past. I don't even notice as we are being carted away, off the Parade track and inside. The anger left me hollow and inattentive. Jean somehow manages to catch my arm, as we are segregated by district and led through the stables. I look at Jean and he's still smiling, exhilarated no doubt by the Parade and the attention of the crowd. I gotta admit, we had some pretty rad costumes… I think about how my boss at the factory, Dendric Ventura, might have commissioned the fabric I wore himself. Highly improbable, but it calms me down, stupidly enough. It's weird how the human brain works, you know. Just _imagining_ that someone from home might have had some sort of input for the fabric that was used in our costumes alleviates my worries. It's as though my brain scrambles desperately for any familiarity, fabricated or not. What a fucking world we live in.

As our escort catches up, congratulating the both of us on our demeanor during the Chariot rides, I fall back a little bit. Jean launches himself immediately into a lengthy critique of the costumes, and both him and our escort are clearly absorbed completely by the topic. I've never had any interest in fashion, truth be told. Weird, coming from a chick from the very bowels of District 8, but here it is. I work at the Ventura factory and it's just a means to an end. I like it because it brings in income, and keeps me and the kids clothed and warm and fed. As the conversation drones on about Ankara and bioLace and other materials I am only vaguely familiar with, my mind jumps back to my home, to my district.

We are led through the hangars into a spacious circle-shaped lobby where all the different escorts quickly disperse, their tributes in tow. We are shoved into a small elevator with "D8" written in golden on the doors, and our lift shoots up. I instinctively grasp the handles in fear, and our escort sneers.

"Not so high and mighty now, eh? Smile a little."

Bitch.

I know she's being nice to Jean, and I know that I've made negative effort to actually make myself look sympathetic to her but still. What a dick.

I don't like being reaped into a death-match where I have to kill other children to survive. I don't like being mothered by some alien-looking lady I don't know. I absolutely _hate_ being dressed up and paraded for the entire country to see. If she doesn't get that through her thick metal-reinforced skull, so be it.

We arrive at our floor, and she ushers us into a new lobby. A few couches are tastefully assembled at comfortable intervals, a flat-screen television is seemingly floating near the wall, playing recaps of our chariots parade quietly in the background and a large table with expensive-looking chairs completes the tableau. Quaint.

"We'll have breakfast here, tomorrow morning, before your training begins," she says, a little out of breath from the brief hike from the elevator to the lobby. Stupid cow.

Without waiting for any further probably nonsensical comments, I head towards the hall at the end of the lobby.

"Your rooms are at the end of the hall. Bexley, yours is to the right, Jean, yours is to the left," she elaborates, while click-clacking on her heels precariously towards me.

"I think I'll stay out in the lobby for a little while?" Jean says, ending his sentence in a question, almost as though he's inviting us to stay with him.

"I'll head to bed. Long day and I'm tired," I mumble, giving him a small smile after some consideration. It's not his fault I'm in a shitty mood. He's been reaped, same way as I was, so I want to give him a break.

"Goodnight Bexley, I'll stay out here for a while longer as well, call Lucretia if you need anything," the escort sniffs, addressing to herself in third person, as I leave. I guess that's her attempting to be nice. What a weirdo.

"Gd'night," I mutter back, already on my way out. I didn't realize just how tired I was until I saw those couches.

I close the door to my room, and an involuntary sigh escapes my lips as I take in my sleeping quarters. It's uh… fucking majestic, if I say so myself. Thanks Capitol, I hate it.

Even though I'm a grown-ass person who has a job and five people to take care of at home, I run like a lovestruck teenager and fling myself on the bouncy behemoth of a bed. All of my pent-up anger is forgotten momentarily as I feel my entire body absorbed by the marshmallow-heaven beneath me. While it definitely sucks that I'm here under such dire conditions, I gotta say… never in my wildest dreams did I dream I'd be lying in a bed like this!

Something ugly and definitely not Bex-sounding escapes my lips as I'm rolling around, in full-costume and everything. I realize I'm giggling like a madman and I just can't stop myself, the hysteria and fucked-up-ness of this whole situation finally crashing down on me.

It takes a while for me to calm down. I don't know how much time my hysterical giggling fit and-or mental breakdown takes, but I realize that I need to get to bed fast, considering we're training tomorrow. As our escort who-is-apparently-named-Lucretia briefed us, we need to be up there fairly early. Since we don't have a mentor, that's where we'll have to do most of the catching up, so that we hopefully don't have our lives ended by more experienced and better guided tributes. I intend to make most of my time in training.

I get up from the bed, stroke it lovingly like a loyal animal and head to the washroom. It's huge, just like the rest of my suite, and the lights almost blind me. I can feel the roots of my eyes throbbing. I'm more tired than I thought I was.

As I start removing my makeup aggressively, I catch a real good look of myself in the mirror. I rarely do. I'm staring back at myself, but it's as though… I don't know. I look older than I feel. And I feel just about a hundred years old. I look more spent than a teenager has any right to look. From the years of pretending, it finally is coming true.

I fling my costume on the ground. I know what I need now, so I take a quick scalding shower, marvelling at how good it feels. Long fucking day, and all that. I go ham on the soap scents because, why not.

Once I'm done, I stand there in all my glory, admiring the steam that I've released into the bathroom. _Eira would kill me for this_, I think, smirking.

I toe my discarded costume that is mournfully lying in a heap, before sprinting naked towards the wardrobe on the other side of my room. In this moment, I seriously don't even care if there's cameras in my room, I just can't stand the scratch of the artificial clothes on my skin. Fancy shit… that ain't me. Eira would quietly and politely admonish me for looking half-homeless all the time. But that's just how I roll, baby, and while I'll dance to the Capitol's tune at their parades and their interviews, I'm keeping my comfy dress code until I'm brutally murdered or the president orders to take me out of the arena. Either way.

I finally settle on an overgrown soft T-shirt.

I sit in it for a while. I finally climb into bed, and turn off all the lights except for the one right near my headrest.

I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I've been chosen to participate in the Hunger Games. I still can't believe I might die in less than a week.

More than ever, I wish right now that I could write a letter to Eira, to the rest of my little ragtag gang. I've never been too big on feelings, but I've always loved all of the kids so goddamn much. I want to clout Renzo in the ear something proper, and make sure he behaves while I'm gone, the little devil. Lord knows tiny Eira can't do much to drag him away from trouble.

I want to tell little Helena to make sure Neve doesn't overstep it with her snark and sassiness. I want to tell them both to stay in school so that I can retire early, so we can all live off the colossal earnings the twins would wrack up with one scheme or another. I'm convinced that if there's someone who can make it in this cutthroat world, it's them. Most of all, I want to tell them how much I believe in them.

I want to write fancy metaphors and amazing adventure-filled pages for Khalon, who's always preferred reading over any actual human interaction. The kid might not even be in third grade of primary school, he might only reach my hip in terms of height, but he's a little cute bug that's got real classics under his belt. Sometimes I wonder just _how_ a dumbass like me picked up such an array of geniuses.

When I realize no one might ever be able to smuggle Khalon an extra book to read, I want to genuinely cry.

I truly believe all of us were always like magnets to each other, yearning to have a sense of belonging and finally getting it, once we were all together. All of that work, all of that love broken up by this stupid Reaping. What a waste.

All of these guys… I've picked up on the street, one way or another. Eira's parents both died in a factory accident, and she was going to officially be adopted by her creepy touchy uncle. If there's one person I wouldn't write to, it's him. Fuck that guy. Renzo's parents both died in the war, and the kid ended up on the streets. If anyone could pick up the mantel once I'm gone, it's Renzo because he's witty, lightning-fast and most importantly, not a pushover. More than ever, I want to tell him how much I love him too and how strong i need him to be.

I never really got past grade 6 English though, is the deal. Had to drop school when I was thirteen, because it was either learning fancy literature or staying fed, clothed and alive. Truth be told, I'm great at talking, in whatever language you need me to talk. Despite my gruffness over the past hours, I can actually be quite the smooth talker… it's what's gotten me out of trouble more than once. But writing? Fuck, that's kind of out of my comfort zone. I can certainly do it, but even little Khalon puts me to shame. Not going to lie, I kind of hate it, and wish I had gotten the chance to actually get into it. So many things I missed out on, because I was born during this dumb war.

But it is what it is, just like the rest of my life.

There's a lot of good stuff that came out of it too, though. Sure, I lost my parents and my brother, but I was way too young. And I found my new family along the way, and I stand by the fact that I'm the luckiest bastard alive for having them with me. Even though we're crammed into two tiny disgusting rooms that Eira tries in vain to keep tidy.

Without humor, I think about how if I ever get out of here, I'll have enough Victor earnings to get myself a tutor, a library of music sheets, a violin and a whole metric ton of books for Khalon. Maybe I'd even have time to actually learn musical theory, which is also something I've always wanted to do. It's the one thing my mother imbued me with, before she got herself killed in the war. My respect for music is all her. I don't remember her, per say, but I remember her violin I held onto desperately for years when I was still all alone, before Eira and the gang, before I was forced to sell it for a roof over my head and a bowl of soup. Maybe if I win, I can sort-of make up for the fact that I don't even remember my mother's face… her love for music might live on, albeit many years too late. How's _that_ for incentive? Maybe I can finally convince Renzo to take up a hobby other than general fuckery and making Peacekeepers miserable, and we can form our own little band with the other kids. Helena can play the triangle, while Khalon belts out a solo. I know I'm just raving at this point, but it's amusing to invent little scenarios like this. I could get lost in them for hours.

I search for a sheet of paper and pen to write down at least something, _anything_ that could let my kids know just how much I care for them. My searching becomes almost feverish, as though this letter is a lifeline, and I can somehow salvage the situation through it.

With utter dismay, I realize there's no pen or paper in my room. All of this stupid hopeless dreaming for nothing. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I can ask Jean for help… he seems like the kind of kid who actually can string nice words together to make something sound flowery and beautiful.

I crawl back into bed and pull the warm fuzzy sheets over myself. I'm letting the rising panic in the back of my throat subside, getting back to gripping my heart vicariously. A letter isn't actually going to change everything, Bex.

I've never been a hugely expressive talker, unless the situation required it. I've always considered myself more of a do-er. Tomorrow training starts, and I know exactly what I need to _do_. I know what hands-on actions I need to undertake to maximize my chances of survival. The things I learn over the course of the next few days might just save me and bring me back to my family, not a letter. My breathing slows a little bit as I repeat these facts like a mantra until my eyes feel like lead.

I am drifting off as I replay many of my most cherished memories from my District, my loved ones swimming behind my eyelids.

I need to come home, I realize that with certainty. Too much depends on it.

I will come home.

* * *

_Notes: Gah! Happy beginning of school to everyone! Here's Bex from District 8, I hope you liked this mama-bear who can run a house like it's a goddamn commune. She's freaking out a little bit, but she's got everything under control damn it! Let me know what you think of her. I'll be posting chapters as quickly as I write them, which will probably average out to something like once a week, since school started and it's hitting me hard. _

_Please keep reading though, I promise cool stuff is coming soon. _

_Next up, the volunteer from District 9, Geoff! _

_Peace and love. _


	20. Chapter 17: District 9 Geoff Windsor

**Geoff Windsor **

**District 9 Male, 16  
****First Night at the Capitol**

* * *

I itch for an adventure.

The rules clearly stated by our escort included, as far as I remember, the absolute and complete prohibition of leaving the boundaries of our District's headquarters. So naturally, that's exactly the rule I set out to break.

The arrogant germaphobe handed us out pamphlets with the outline of all the rules we must abide by. Jokes on him, because I can't read. I throw the pamphlet into the garbage bin for emphasis even though no one is there to watch, whooping as it lands perfectly into the hole. It even had drawings on it, to facilitate our understanding, since we're clearly idiot peasants to him. It's as though all my preconceived stereotypes and prejudices towards Capitolites are all assembled in this one disgusting human being.

Mona already went to bed. Out of the two of us, she's a lot more distraught and confused. If I could have, I would have volunteered for her too. I mean, I'm just a street-rat who got his mom killed because of his own stupid recklessness. Or maybe it's the crappy degenerate system that did her in.

I mean, who whips a person to death for stealing an _apple_? My mom didn't even steal it, is the thing. I did, because we were starving and my eleven-year-old brain thought that people wouldn't overreact. Spoiler alert, they _did_. Big time. But that's classic District 9 for you. Killing innocent people, making toughened criminals out of little innocent boys who just thought with their empty stomachs instead of their brains, the works. I'm not _really_ a toughened criminal. I didn't kill anyone, per say. But my mom's death definitely expediated the process of me becoming a damn good thief and an immoral bastard on all fronts.

I've always been a dicey kid, what with my dad going to war supporting the rebels and never coming back. He was a rebel Marshall and all that, too. His mates said he was kidnapped, tortured and then fed to the dog-mutts the Capitol regiment had on hand. Heard that news when I was five, so no wonder I have anger management problems and a metric ton of pent-up mental issues.

Despite that, I volunteered for that kid, didn't I? I'm not totally shitty. My mom's done a good job, and I hope that wherever she is, she's looking down at me and is somewhat proud. I hope she doesn't hate me for what I did because I didn't _know_ the consequences. As much as I hate to admit it, I was stupid and reckless. Even now, my decision to volunteer for the snivelling little kid that was reaped wasn't exactly premeditated. I'm pretty sure every asshole in the district has thought about being in the Games, just to see how they'd do, so sure, it _was_ at the back of my mind. But it wasn't like I planned it all out.

Acting on impulse is kind of my thing.

See, that's my big problem but also one of my biggest strengths. I don't think with my brain very much. Either way, I don't necessarily regret it. The volunteering, I mean. That little boy is safe with his family, and I'm kind of a District legend. It's incredible how quickly I shook off my reputation of dirty street rat, when I volunteered for one of the District's beloved innocent babies. No one's really going to miss me. The last person who cared got whipped by Peacekeepers for a crime she didn't commit, staring me down accusatorily even as she whispered that she loved me. I know my mother loved me, but I also know she didn't deserve or want to die disgraced like that.

I was younger than Mona when I caused that. And the little girl seems so frail and lost, even though she tries her best to act tough. So again, I'd ask the President himself, is it because us district kids are just that much stupider or _maybe_ it's because we're all starving slaves in a country that punishes small mistakes with disproportionately cruel punishments which destroy us further?

I'm not delusional, I know my chances of winning this are low. But my blood boils knowing these sycophantic bastards control every aspect of my life. After my mother's death, something in me snapped. Every apple stolen, every trinket pocketed was a rush of adrenaline, calming the forever-present anger towards the society that enslaves us all. Every successfully stolen item was a representation of me sticking it to the man, playing the system.

It's payback but it's not even close, it'll never be close. Unless I somehow kill every Capitol-supporting asshole in a thousand-mile radius. That would be the only payback that would matter, but alas, I know my limits.

Happily enough, performing a simple unlocking maneuver is not a limit I have. Neither is the mildly complex acrobatic feat I perform to leave the room unnoticed. I could just walk out like a normal person, but then what's the fun in that? I've officially left the edges of our sleeping quarters.

I grin to myself as I lunge into a rounded hallway. The building is built like some sort of gigantic beer can, a bloated version of the ones I've stolen from weary workers in District 9. That's where the similarities end though, since the entire infrastructure is made of elegant metal and slivers of gold and white which stretch within the walls. It all looks pretty goddamn luxurious and makes my eyes gleam. I stroll around on our floor, doing a complete circle before stopping at the elevator. The inscription "D9" stares me down, making me aware of how restricted I am. Even in this huge suite, I am stopped from going where I want, and I've had enough of this crap. I volunteered for their murder game, so I have a right to explore the building where I'm essentially locked up in.

I stand there, tapping my foot exaggeratedly against the ground for a minute. Then, without any further ado, I unscrew the vent with the stolen silver fork I pocketed during supper and climb in. I'm not incinerated on the spot or thrown back by some magical forcefield, so I continue on my way.

I climb down for a long time. I'm not really sure how long, if I'm being honest, but I eventually make it to the level that I think is District 7's headquarters. If their rooms are disposed the same way as ours are, and with the Capitol's penchant for compulsive order I'm pretty sure they are, this is about where Logan should be sleeping.

I spot a vent opening a few meters ahead, and proceed to knock harder.

"Hey, Logan, it's Geoff," I whisper loudly. I only now become aware of the fact that if I get caught, I'd probably be reprimanded to hell and back. Oh well, there's no stopping now. Gotta roll with the punches, if they come.

"Loooogan," I keep whispering until I get a really confused "who are you?" back.

"It's Geoff," I answer, scooching a little closer to the grilled vent opening. "I'm going to drop from the vent outside your door, so you need to open the door for me, okay bud?"

I don't receive an answer for about five seconds and am about to turn around and return to my floor, when Logan's little gears in his brain activate.

"How are you here near my room?"

I hear something that sounds suspiciously like Logan slapping his own forehead with considerate force.

"Yeah… I mean, sure I'll open," he whispers after a moment and I can hear him stumbling out of bed, tripping over something and cursing quietly.

I count until ten before I unscrew the grid from my side and drop without a sound to the carpet in front of Logan's bewildered face. I've worked in the fields since I was a tiny child, so it's safe to say my arms slow my decent. I'm not the oldest volunteer, far from it, but even I know I'm strong. Logan is gawking at me as though I sprouted a second head.

"I went through the vents," I say, by way of explanation.

I throw myself on Logan's unmade bed, as he stutters and runs around like a chicken without a head. I laugh sincerely.

"Relax, if I didn't get shot on my way down here, that means either they know I'm here and they're letting this meeting happen, or…" I pause for dramatic purposes and lean closer, "they don't know I'm here and I'm _that_ good."

Logan ponders about that for a second, and then nods, a genuine smile erupting on his face.

"You absolute genius, I'll be honest, I was trying to sleep but was freaking out," he admits, shuffling his feet, which are in ridiculous fluffy slippers. He looks at them, suddenly self-conscious.

I reassure him they look cool.

Then I get another idea.

"How's your climbing?" I ask him, getting up from the bed and cracking my knuckles.

"Uh… I think I'm alright? District 7 and all, would be a national disgrace if I wasn't," I replies, a little caught of guard.

"Wanna visit Jean from Eight? He's cool, I talked to him before the Chariots and I think we could ally, the three of us," I press, approaching Logan. His eyes flicker with hopeful recognition.

"Only if you want," I add, not wanting to force my shenanigans on him. I secretly really hope he'll say yes. I want to explore and I'm honestly getting good vibes from these two guys and I want to set our alliance into stone before someone else arrives and disrupts it.

"Oh, yeah, sure, I mean I don't think it's a good idea, but I can't sleep properly anyways," Logan says, taking off his robe and putting on a red T-shirt. It clashes wildly with his green pants.

He sees me grinning.

"Hey, it'll be like a ratchet skinny Santa Claus crawling down your chimney," he shrugs.

I correct him. "First of all, you clearly have no idea who the hell Santa Claus is or how he dresses, second, we're not going through the chimney, we're going through vents."

"First off, how the hell is _knowing_ what _Santa Claus_ looks like a prerequisite in a country where all religious freedom is choked out and holidays are like_, not a thing._ Second, you _clearly_ went through a chimney at some point if you look like that."

He points at me for emphasis.

I look down and fair enough, there's a soot-like grey substance all over my clothes and hands. From Logan's unimpressed facial expression, I probably have it all over my face too.

"I know what Santa Claus looks like," I mutter, shoving him out the door.

"Good for you," Logan replies laughing, tapping me on the head.

We quietly open the vent outside his door. He goes first, struggling a little to pull himself up, but gets through the hole. I follow suite, and soon we're both crawling through the vents. I lead the way, and soon we're at Jean's floor.

"I hope Jean's escort won't raise the alarm," Logan whispers, even as I start unscrewing the vent. I can feel a breeze rolling through the grid. "I hope my escort doesn't freak out, too."

"Don't worry about it, you'll be back in no time. And I wanna remind you that we've made it this far," I say, sticking out my tongue in concentration.

We finally drop out of the vent, and Logan just about freaks out.

I think I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way, because we're on the eighth floor, but we somehow ended up on the other side of the building. We're not in front of Jean's room. We're on large terrace overlooking the Capitol.

We both marvel at the sight.

"I'll be right back," I say, even as Logan grabs my elbow, "I promise I'll be back, with Jean in tow."

He lets go, and wraps his arms around himself even as he gazes up at the city sprawled out lazily in front of him. I glance around the terrace quickly... once again, I'm baffled by the fact that I can't spot a single camera. Either this is a major oversight by the assholes in charge, or they're way ahead of me and somehow letting us get away with this.

Either way, I don't waste any time. I sprint down through the corridors, knowing that Jean's room must be on the other side of the beer can. I unlock the door to his lobby with ease. I brace myself for a screaming escort, but when that never comes, I enter quietly. I mean… it is 3AM. Then I see a frozen figure on the couch.

It's Jean, stuck in a stupor, looking at me wide-eyed and terrified. His mouth is hanging open, and he's clutching the TV remote as though that'll provide any protection.

I put my finger to my lips, motioning him to come to me.

It only takes a moment for him to shake himself out of it, and he gets up, looks around, still with that wide-eyed look. I grin at him, motioning that everyone is asleep.

"Come outside," I mouth, and he smiles back brightly, creeping towards the door.

We get back to Logan, who sat down and is staring at us, his eyes shining.

I close the door behind us. There's a distinct click followed by a _beep_.

"Jean, Logan... Logan, Jean," I articulate out loud, showing them both to each other. Jean clutches at his chest dramatically.

"Holy _crap_ dude, I thought someone was breaking in to murder me," he says laughing and extending his hand simultaneously towards Logan.

"Yeah, I thought I had some evil spirit haunting my walls, almost shit myself," Logan says, still whispering. "He was _literally_ in my goddamn wall, can you imagine? I just hear knocking and think 'that's how I die'. Smothered in my sleep by a ghost. It was some real horror movie shit."

I clap them both on the back.

"Look at that view," I say, pulling my beanie closer to my ears.

"I didn't know there were balconies in this building!"

"Yeah me neither, I think only District 8's floor does," I muse, looking down and not seeing another balcony in sight. I might be wrong though. So many unexplored corners in this building.

I take out a little bottle of whiskey I snagged off our escort, as I pretended to barrel into him during supper. I'm pretty sure he literally doused himself in sanitizing alcohol afterwards.

Logan's eyes widen at the sight.

Jean hasn't noticed the bottle yet, still mesmerized by the lights assaulting his senses.

"District 8's got the balcony because we're clearly the best district," he says jokingly, and Logan interrupts him.

"Or it's because you guys still haven't gotten a victor and everyone feels bad."

I snort, "Oh, you are savage!"

And the three of us start laughing. It doesn't even make sense, but we're all tired, stressed out and it feels great to unwind.

I didn't really have friends back at home. I wasn't kidding when I said no one would give a shit if I suddenly popped off the face of the Earth. You can't really afford to have friends when you're constantly changing your identity in order to avoid one horde of Peacekeepers or another. You can't really connect with anyone since you know you'll rob them blind if they ever start trusting you. People don't take kindly to being stolen from, after all.

That's probably why I crawled out of my bedroom here. I wanted to finally cement something, anything, that resembles the kind of teenage boy friendships normal people have.

I uncork the bottle, and Jean grimaces at the strong scent.

"Can't believe adults drink this crap," Logan mutters under his breath.

"Wait, you're telling me you never drank booze? First Santa Claus, now this?" I reel on him incredulously.

Jean takes the first sip. It's more of a full-on swig, and he downs a third of the 300mL bottle in one shot. He almost retches, but keeps it together.

"Wait, Logan believes in Santa Claus?" he squeals, breaking out in full-on loud laughter.

"No, no, I don't, I just…nevermind!" Logan scrambles to explains before taking the bottle and drinking. "I have drunk before," he adds, pointing finger guns at me.

"Sure you did buddy," I grin, and down the bottle.

"I did! It's a tradition in my family to pour out a bit of alcohol for a baby, when they're nine days old, or something. I don't know, my sister told me about it," he says. Seeing that I'm clearly not satisfied, he hiccups and adds, "I've also drank with my sister's almost-fiancé, Damon, who's an adult."

His face suddenly drops, and he looks around again, for cameras. As though the Capitol would waste their time spoiling Damon's proposal to Logan's sister. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but on second thought, that's exactly the kind of evil shit they'd be up for.

"That baby-drinking totally cost you brain cells, admit it," I tease him.

"That explains why you believe in Santa Claus," Jean chimes in, and Logan hits him playfully in the arm, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Sitting like this, with the wind blowing in our faces, I feel like we're invincible. I know that feeling is dangerous, but I can't help but relish it. Logan and Jean, they're both good kids. I think we'll make a really decent gang, going in.

I tilt back the bottle, letting the last drops run into my mouth. I look back at the two guys.

"So, what else did you get for us, or are we supposed to believe you snagged one lousy bottle of whiskers," Logan says, getting braver with the alcohol inhibiting his brain a little. "Whiskey," Jean corrects him pragmatically, flopping on the floor and extending his toes towards the railing.

"Well, now that you mention it," I pull out another bottle halfway through.

I get a collective and excited _ah_ from my crowd of two loyal buddies sitting in front of me.

"So that's why you were clinking like a madman when we were going down those vents," Logan breathes, snapping his fingers together as though he came up with the most brilliant solution to some mathematical problem.

"It's straight-up…vodka," I conclude, pulling out the clear bottle completely. Jean and Logan cheer.

We all drink, and not once do we mention the Games that are coming up.

I get pretty tipsy, but the other two guys are clearly less used to this than I am, and they're soon rolling around on the ground.

No matter what happens tomorrow, a week from now, I'll have given them this moment. And they have given me this feeling of belonging, of finally doing something right. I know we'll take care of each other out there, and that's what matters.

I'm resolved to have as much fun as I can, and to protect these guys. And if need be, we'll go out with a bang.

* * *

_Notes: Here's Geoff from District 9. A famous thief or the softie who just needs good bros to keep him on the right track? You decide. _

_Let me know what you think of this kiddo. While these guys are getting drunk on a terrace while the Capitol turns a blind eye to all these shenanigans, we'll see what Mona's up to in the next chapter! _

_Also, wonderful thing that I finally stopped procrastinating on: THE BLOG!  
It is completed, thanks to __**twistedservice**__. It's got Victors and tributes galore, it's a lot of fun, so go check it out of you're so inclined! Once again, any feedback, comments, complaints about how I didn't photoshop Mara's white strand of hair, etc. is appreciated. The complete link is on my profile._** / / absolutionhg . blogspot . com**. Check it out!

_Peace and Love. _


	21. Chapter 18: District 9 Mona Tillery

**Mona Tillery **

**District 9 Female, 13  
****First Night at the Capitol  
**

* * *

My hands keep fidgeting, searching for something to do and I can't for the life of me figure out what. My ma' always said I was way too eager, way too agitated for my own good. And I guess I understand what she means now. _Thump thump_.

I bite my lip, but even the small burst of pain doesn't distract me from the stuff that really bothers me. I'm still in shock about what happened, and while I was able to keep it together during the reaping the chariot rides, everything's kind of crashing down on me right about now. And there's that annoying incessant _thumping_ that just _won't stop_.

I fiddle my thumbs a little bit, rolling over and over in the bed that feels like it's swallowing me whole, like some sort of horrible creature. I hope there's no monsters in the arena that will eat me. I wonder what it feels like, to get eaten alive. I shudder at the thought, and I can feel my lip trembling. It probably looks pathetic, but I'm not in front of a crowd now, so I can afford to look scared because I _am_. The only reason that I didn't drop everything and start crying right at the reaping was because of the shock. I know I was only vaguely aware of what was going on during the Chariot rides, the excessive noise threatening to make me shrink further in on myself. Now that I'm alone, the thoughts are running wild in my head, like feral beasts that feast on my sanity.

I just…I can't _believe_ my sisters didn't volunteer for me. I guess it was stupid of me to think that they would, but come on. I'm thirteen, last time I checked, and how the hell do they think I'm going to fare? I'm not stupid, I know I don't have a chance at winning, and up until maybe an hour ago, I wasn't even that terrified of dying because I was just so _hurt_ by everyone abandoning me like that. A little insidious voice in my head adds that Georgina didn't even look particularly sorry that I was leaving. And that _hurts_ more than anything else.

I just can't believe no one volunteered for me… no one even tried.

The worst part is that when we were on the train, Geoff told me he volunteered for some random kid. I almost lost it, right there and then. I mean, he didn't even know the guy! I wish this wouldn't turn up the most disgusting and worst aspects of me, but I can't help but feel so _angry_ with him too. How could he just throw his life away like this? Why couldn't another idiot just like him volunteer for _me_? Does no one think I'm worth saving?

I know I'm pretty well-liked around District 9, and my sisters always told me they loved me. I know Arla couldn't volunteer because she's twenty-one, but the twins are eighteen and could have… I don't know…I guess that kind of sacrifice is only portrayed in movies and I'm just a stupid kid with stupid delusions about how life should be, but… at least one of them should have done something.

At the very least, I expected them to. Even Georgina, because I know I got on her nerves sometimes. But no one volunteered no matter how much they said they cared for me. Dying knowing _that_ is probably the worst fate I could possibly imagine. It's that all-consuming thought that just keeps eating away at me until I feel like I'm going crazy.

At the goodbyes, my ma' broke down crying and kept saying how she was so proud of me, but what was she proud of, exactly? I've never seen her cry before, either, so the whole thing just felt so awkward and alien.

I didn't even get to say anything important. Just stood there while ma' and Arla fussed over me, Zia hugged Georgina and Barric just cried.

I kind of regret not telling them all how it really is. They sent me in like a lamb for slaughter, and Zia or Georgina didn't even lift a finger. I always admired Zia so much, and I would have given anything to be like her, but I guess she didn't think her life was worth mine, in the end.

She's probably right too, but I just wish I had gotten the chance to grow up to be like her. Less of a coward, maybe.

I know my brother Barric was sad, I saw it in his face but even then…how many things were left unsaid between us? How many things I would have liked to apologize for, but didn't have the opportunity?

The thumping noise I've been hearing for the past two hours intensifies, and I hear half-muffled shouts coming from across the hall.

Fear grips my insides and my first rational thought is to throw the covers over myself. I sit there, in my bed, shivering underneath my blankets, wallowing in self-pity as the shouts become more agonized. I don't want to be here.

_THUMP. Thump thump. _

I can't take it anymore. Even though I'm scared, I need to go see what it is.

I throw the covers off and run quickly to my door, open it, and race out into the hallway. I hear the thumps coming from our mentor's room.

If I can even call him that.

He won those _bad_ games, the ones where the arena collapsed. He can't speak no more. Maybe he never could, but I remember him standing before, and now he can't do that either. I'm terrified that this could happen to me. Broken Mona on a broken wheelchair for the rest of my days. I shake my head to banish that horrible thought and get up.

I creep quietly towards the door, jumping startled as a loud crashing noise is heard right on the other side of the wall. A loud undignified squeak escapes my lips.

The thumping doesn't let off.

"Come on Mona, get in the room, no one can hurt you right now," I whisper to myself, and count to three in my head. I brace myself, turn the knob. I'm actually surprised when I find it unlocked and my heart sinks a little. A part of me was hoping it would be closed so I wouldn't have to deal with whatever is on the other side.

I take another deep breath, and push hard against the door.

I find myself inside the room, which looks as though a particularly devastating hurricane from the south of Panem came and went ham on the furniture around the bed. A wheelchair lies upturned at the bedside, and in the middle of it all, is Momo. _In the epicenter_, my brain helpfully supplies, as though naming things properly will make this situation right somehow.

I stand there, like some dumb scarecrow, with my lips slightly ajar.

Momo looks at me momentarily, but he doesn't see me. That's the really terrifying part. He looks as though he's in his own world, thrashing around, hitting his bed against the wall. I guess that's where the thumping came from.

He can't even stand up, his legs skinny and frail under the blankets, but his huge arms swing out wildly, and he reaches an armchair at the edge of his bed and hurls it across the room. I duck as it shatters and pieces of wood go flying everywhere. He looks like a mindless beast on a rampage.

"MO!" he screams, gripping his head and shaking it with such force that I'm afraid he will rip it off his neck.

"Hey!" I yell, and the sound comes out shrill and helpless in the middle of this chaos.

I try again.

"Hey Momo, stop!"

He turns around, his eyes focusing on something behind me. I have to help him, I realize. It's been going around the District that Momo's crazy or mentally disabled. People have used worse words, too, but my sister Arla always said it's not nice to say those things about people, even if they don't understand.

It's not his fault he's like this.

I reach out one arm, shakily. It looks so thin and sad, probably like the rest of me. I scrunch up my nose just as he reaches for another heavy-looking lamp. I don't want him to throw it at me.

"Hey Momo, it's okay," I approach him cautiously, even as he seems to calm down a little. I extend my pinkie, a gesture meant as a universal peace sign in District 9. It means I don't mean him any harm.

He shies away slowly, and then, as though possessed by some sort of demon, starts hitting himself. I jump back in horror.

"MO MOMO MO-" he bellows, tears leaking out of his crazed eyes even as his fists come down from above him to hit him in the side, on his legs, in his jaw.

Oh. I understand something. He's reliving his arena.

"Momo, please," I plead, even as his screams skyrocket in intensity.

I can't do anything.

The panic rises in my throat and I stumble towards him, reaching out my arm again, thinking that maybe the human touch might jerk him out of his nightmare.

He grabs my arm. He doesn't stop moaning and screaming and hitting himself.

"Stop Momo," I beg more insistently, trying to get my arm out of his huge hand.

When I was little, when ma' was gone out late at work, Arla used to tell me and Barric stories about the universe. She'd take us out into the fields, and explain constellations, which were taught to her by our older brother Reed. He's gone from the house now, but Arla wanted his knowledge to be passed on. So, she'd talk and talk, and I'd be fascinated at how small we were, compared to the universe.

I'd often feel as though I have no control over my fate, and it felt so magical back then. Right now, I feel helpless and I can't control this, but it's not magical.

It shakes me to my core and something in me snaps.

Something that's been bubbling up ever since my name was called and my sisters left me to be sent off to my death.

I have no control over _anything_. I can't even control this stupid man who will break my arm in half before the Games even start and he won't even know how to feel sorry about what he's done.

So, I do something I haven't done in a really long time. I start crying.

And with the slow-coming tears, an inhuman-sounding shriek erupts from my chest and out of my mouth.

Momo's grip loosens, and through the cascade of tears, I can see his eyes focusing, bearing that permanently confused look cattle must have when their led to be slaughtered in District 10.

That's the look I'll have right before I die eaten, die eviscerated, die strangled and he won't even do anything to help he won't know where I am he doesn't even know who I am –

"Mo- MoMo … Mo," he struggles to enunciate. Possessed with an animalistic anger, I rip my arm out of his now-limp grip, tears streaming down my face. I know he's a cripple, but I can't help but feel absolutely unstoppable rage towards the fact that he can't _help_ me, he can't even be bothered to say anything useful –

"STOP SAYING MO MO MO, IT DOESN'T HELP, IT DOESN'T _HELP_," I start screaming. I'm vaguely aware of the fact that I'm full-on crying right now.

He weakly protests intelligibly, lifting himself slightly out of his bed. I know his legs and back got busted in his Games, and on a normal day I would have even felt horrible. But now I throw myself at where his feet are covered with a blanket and start hammering at his legs with my fists and sobbing uncontrollably. I just can't take this anymore, the agonizing thoughts in my brain, his stupid moaning. Did my sisters really hate me that much to let me die like this?

My ma' and Arla have always taught me how to be polite, considerate of people's needs and kind, but right now I couldn't give less of a rat's ass about their lessons because I'm about to die and all I've got is this desperation which grips at my insides.

I sob harder as I collapse onto my knees. I hit the ground hard, screaming and pounding my fists on the bed for emphasis. At the very back of my mind, I think that it's very unbecoming of me to have a temper tantrum like this in the middle of the Capitol, but the emotions threaten to drown me when I try to stop.

"Mo…Momo…"

I'm too young for this, but this is exactly what heartbreak must feel like. It's a mix of a sense of complete betrayal, your heart being sliced in two by a sharp sickle and torn apart by stray dogs.

"Mmm…Momo…"

He's not screaming anymore, he just sounds very confused. I calm myself a little bit as well.

I sniffle, sob, and look up into his muddy ugly brown eyes. Flecks of gold and green permeate the brown, I realize absentmindedly. Most of all though, it's the depth of his gaze that strikes me dumb.

"Momo…Mo_na_…Mo-mo," he continues insistently and wipes the tears off my cheek with his huge thumb.

_Mona_. That's my name.

The kindness in his gesture makes fresh tears spring up in their place just as quickly and I can't seem to be able to peel my eyes away from his. In those pools of brown, green and gold, there's a deep emotion hidden, almost too far down for anyone to notice. But I see his deep pain… he understands what I feel.

And he said my name. _My_ name.

"Moooo," he says for emphasis, "na."

I nod at him, while wiping my nose with the back on my hand.

"Yeah, Mona," I repeat weakly, smiling a little bit. I can't stop crying.

He said my name and I'm not sure he's ever said anything other than his own little moniker. I don't know why, but I feel sudden pride.

That pride is quickly overwhelmed by panic when he grabs a strand of my blond hair and pulls it gently towards himself like a giant needy child that wants to inspect a new toy.

I jerk myself out of his grip, rolling a little on the floor near his bed and painfully hitting my knees, which were bruised when I collapsed on the ground during my tantrum. I hiss at Momo, because it seems we've both been reduced to sounds and one-word sentences which involve our names. Go figure.

I don't know why he wants to touch me, but I'm scared he'll hurt me just because he's so much bigger than I am. If he thinks I'm a toy, he might just snap me in half.

He sits up higher, and the blanket falls slightly to the side, revealing his useless legs which are outfitted in fuzzy pyjama pants with horses printed on them. He pats them affectionately and with deceptive speed grabs at my hair again. Weirdly enough, it's the gentleness in his gesture that catches me completely off-guard.

I didn't move out of the way quickly enough and I stumble into the bed.

He's going to rip my head off because he thinks I'm in the arena with him again.

Oh.

Oh god, the fear threatens to crush me, I can't even scream.

Instead, my body goes into survival overdrive and I pant with exertion trying to get away, but it _hurts_. Momo sits me up in front of him as though I weigh nothing more than a feather and suddenly all the fight is drained out of me. So, I do the only sensible thing and I quit, resigning myself to whatever fate there is for me. After all, I never had any control over anything at all. I'm smaller than a speck of dust. I close my eyes, trembling.

Instead of something horrible, I feel Momo's large fingers make strands of my waxy hair. Stray blond filaments fall onto my forehead and he gently brushes them to the side.

I open my eyes that I squeezed shut in anticipation of my head being separated from my body, turn my head slightly and see his face scrunched up in concentration.

He hums a tuneless melody, and the sound is rich and deep.

I try to pull away my head once again, my hand roaming through my hair, to find a way to escape his fingers that are interwoven with the beginning of a complicated braid on top of my head.

_Wait_.

A braid?

He's…he's braiding my hair?

I'm beyond confused now. He gently pats my head for emphasis.

"Momo…Mona," he says, as though that explains anything at all.

As I sit there, with this huge gentle giant who I thought was going to kill me minutes prior braiding my hair as gently as a mother would, I start crying again. My mother almost never braided my hair, she never had time.

And I know he probably doesn't even understand why we're here, why we're both stuck in this horrible situation, but I have a primal need to tell him about my life, for what it's worth.

It all slips out in fragments, and if anyone else was listening, it would make zero sense, but I talk at Momo as he hums.

I tell him about my father, Carter Tillery, who fought bravely in the war and died a hero. I tell him about all the adventures my father had, and how he could make the sun come out with a smile. I didn't know him, being the youngest and all, but I just embellish for Momo's sake to a point where I believe it too.

I tell him about my hardworking mother Aviva, and how much I wish for her to be actually proud of me. I don't want her to just _say_ that because she knows I want to hear it, I want her to really notice the things I do and say to herself "I've raised Mona well".

I spend a lot of time talking about Zia, and how beautiful and smart she is. I even admit how heartbroken I am that she didn't volunteer for me, but even that pain feels dulled down now that I can actually process it. The pressure seems to be relieved from the top of my head even though the heartache is still there.

Zia always had such beautiful braids, and I was always _so_ jealous of her, because my hair never got that luscious. Momo pats my half-finished braid, as though to prove me wrong.

"Mmmmm," he replies, as though ruminating on the things I just told him.

"And Arla, you'd love Arla, she's my oldest sister but she's always taken care of us all, when my mom was at work all the time," I keep going, getting excited to finally have someone listening. She's always babied me and Barric and the others. We felt like we could be kids around her. I tell him about the stars we talked about.

"There's also my friends, Kasha and Shiloh, you'd really love them both, oh and Mila from the fields…"

My sentences come out in a hurry, as though if I stop, I'll be silenced forever.

I even spend some time describing Georgina, Zia's twin, before passing on quickly to Barric.

"If I had to pick, Barric's the best, out of all my siblings," I confide in Momo. "We were always up to something, building bird shelters. He's a real clever one, and… and –"

My mood darkens a little bit when I realize those are things of the past.

"I didn't really get to say goodbye properly, you know?"

Momo tucks a strand behind my ear carefully.

"I just… I really didn't want to grow up. I never might get the chance to do that, now," I add nervously, before continuing. "But the point is Barric was right, and I really screwed up."

"I guess I just wish I could say sorry."

I remember now when he kept on asking me to stop playing around, to stop acting out in the fields. He got punished because I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut when we were supposed to be working. I don't tell this to Momo, because what's the point in making myself the villain in this story, if he even understands a word I'm saying.

I turn around and see Momo nodding to himself, eyes fixated on my braid.

I take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for you too, Momo."

I didn't even think hands that large were capable of such fine tasks, but he finishes my braid and without a word to acknowledge my apology, he turns me around, as though to admire his work.

I run my hand on top of the braid, and I don't even have to see it to know it's beautiful.

"Thanks Momo," I mutter quietly, wiping tears out of my eyes with my knuckles.  
I look at the time and I didn't realize we spent all this time talking.

I feel my eyes get droopy, but for the first time in hours, it doesn't feel like my heart is about to leap out of my chest.

"Thanks Momo, for real," I repeat for emphasis, and lean in, extending my arms to hug him.

This gesture, he understands.

He leans in too, and his huge arms envelop me like a giant teddy bear.

"People really don't give you enough credit," I whisper.

Momo pats me on the back lightly, and I take that as a sign of approval.

Once I leave, I close the door quietly behind me and creep back into my room. I don't take my hair out of the braid, and lie down in bed.

I stare at the ceiling. I was too dazed to form an actual plan before this instant, but now that I've released the storm of emotions, I feel a lot better.

I'm still scared, but I think I know what I have to do. What would Zia do? What am I going to do, to give this my best shot?

These are all questions I have no answers to, but baby steps.

No more thumping can be heard from Momo's room, as I drift off.

* * *

_Notes: Say hello to little Mona from District 9! I hope you enjoyed her as a character as well as her interaction with the gentle giant Victor from District 9. Let me know what you think. I love this little kiddo and a tantrum is exactly what she needed to get back on track, for what needs to be done. Next up, we're getting Val from D10, and that means we're really nearing the end for the introductory chapters.  
_

_If anyone has any opinions about the blog too, please share them in the reviews, I'll be super happy! _

_Peace and love. _


	22. Chapter 19: District 10 Valentino Ricci

**Valentino Ricci**

**District 10 Male, 18  
****First Morning at the Capitol**

* * *

To be completely truthful, I slept like a goddamn log from the depths of District 7. No agonizing dreams or anything, just pleasant darkness. So, when I wake up, I'm almost surprised at the fact that I'm alone in my huge room.

It's weird not to have my brother Alessio snoring loudly on the top bunk or the sound of birds breaking up the peace of the morning. We built the frame together with Grandpa, about five years ago when we outgrew the other bunk bed. Didn't prevent it from creaking as though it was busy summoning the demons from hell.

The Capitol is just so damn quiet, but loud at the same time. I know it doesn't even make sense, but there's no birds, no cattle moo-ing right outside your window, but there's the busy droning of vehicles, generators and construction lifts that just plunges the entire city in some permanent buzzing atmosphere. It's not the right noises though, distinctly un-District 10-like.

Even as I'm tempted to open my eyes, I keep them closed, imagining the minute noises that became a habit back home. Even the cracking and creaking bed is now a welcome memory.

I imagine getting up quietly, thwacking Alessio in the face with a pillow for good measure and running down the stairs as he swears loud enough to wake up the neighbors. He never could catch me, unless he wanted to throw himself off the already-unstable wooden frame. He's done it once or twice, almost broke his knees, and has been content to just hurl the most inventive insults my way. Grandma and Grandpa got weak of hearing lately, thank god for that, because I'm pretty sure Grandma would thwack him harder than I ever did with the end of her signature wooden spoon, if she heard the words that came tumbling out of his mouth.

It was always hilarious to screw with him like that.

It's what older brothers are for.

I'm not huge on sentimentalism, never really had time for it, but in the comfort of this enormous bed, I let my mind roam a little bit. Before this, I never really needed this kind of introspection, because my life just… _was_. As far as I was concerned, I had my cows to take care of. I'd get up at 4:30AM every day to start the tasks at hand, finish up at 3PM and lie in the grass sometimes, if I had a bit of extra time on my hands. In between my tasks around the farm, I'd go and make a decent breakfast and lunch for Grandma and Grandpa, once Grandma couldn't walk no more. Alessio would help out, once in a while. He started doing more of that recently, because I think he got it into his thick head that he ain't gonna stay a kid forever.

I can almost picture Grandma's sharp words echoing after me and Alessio whenever we did something stupid and Grandpa's disapproving glare from underneath his thick grey bushy eyebrows. Alessio had a real knack to imitating that glare, it was goddamn hilarious. Never in front of Grandpa though, he'd clout us in the ear something fierce if we were within the reach of his rocking armchair.

More often than not, we'd horse around and run away laughing towards the barn, and by the time we were back, our grandparents would have forgotten whatever crap we got up to in the first place.

That's the way life is in District 10, though. We're a strong folk, loyal and hardworking, we have a temper, but we forgive easy. Grandma and Grandpa, they're both not what they used to be, and the worrying thought of me dying and them just withering away with no one to take care of them makes me frown.

Yeah, I'm not gonna go there today. I'm not going to ruin a perfectly good morning with my existential crisis crap.

I open up my eyes and stare at the ornamented ceiling. Hell, that single piece of carved-out decoration could've fed us for a year, and I'd still sell my soul to be able to get back to that life. I know some people would keel over and die if they were confronted with the kind of routine I've been subjected to since I was younger. Hell, we've gotten a disproportionate number of volunteers in this year's Games, so it's highly probable that some of the kids here did it to escape the monotony of their lives, or whatever the hell kids think is the shit nowadays.

But I don't know, there's something comforting in the fact that your life just has this rhythm and expected quality to it. I'm a man of simple tastes, and I'd have stayed perfectly happy to just keep doing that until the end of my days, so life throwing me a curveball in the shape of the goddamn Hunger Games is… is frankly shitty.

I've never really bothered stressing about what would happen if I got reaped, and now it's biting me in the ass.

I stop myself again before that thought process goes off the rails. No point in agonizing over something I have absolutely no control over.

I roll out of bed, and hit the ground silently.

Absentmindedly, I wonder whether the cows will be alright today, since Alessio always slept in, no matter how much I asked him to take care of the animals for me. Drove me crazy when we were younger, but I've kind-of gotten over that self-righteous anger. Now that I'm gone, he needs to step up, whether he likes it or not.

When Grandpa got sick and my help became less of an appreciated gesture and more of an indispensable thing people just _expected_, I missed the alarm once or twice, and thought nothing of it. That's the thing with animals though, they can't take care of themselves and they're not some object you can just put on the backburner for any time you want.

Ol' Riri's prone to mastitis, which is a nasty udder infection, and no one wants to deal with that. That was a lesson I learned the hard way… smelled like rotting flesh and curdled milk for a week. You'd think one cow doesn't really make a difference, until you can't sell her milk no more, and you go hungry. That's when you understand how much we depend on animals out in District 10.

That was before we expanded our cow herd too, so Ol' Riri getting sick was a real set-back. That's not even the thing that bothered me, she just seemed in so much pain, moo-ing and shifting from one side the other, the udder veins popping out like a damn spider web.

It's never fun to know you've caused someone else's suffering, especially with animals, and the way they stare up into your eyes, all innocent and shit, as though you can cure them is just goddamn heartbreaking. We didn't have any medicine for animals either, so we just had to wait it out.

My grandparents didn't even have to say anything, I got my shit together after that.

If I want to get back to my life though, suffering's exactly what I'll need to hand out to the kids who are here with me. We've gone over the other tributes with Glenn on the train, so I know what to expect.

I also saw the way they behaved before the Chariots… it's really something else.

A lot of them looked like they were about to fly through the ceiling from the sheer stress in their systems, but all I wanted to do is go to bed. I hit the sack as soon as the Chariot rides ended. But look at me now, it's about 5AM and I'm wide awake. Old habits die hard, I guess. I estimate I've got a good two or three hours before I'm expected for breakfast.

I drop to the floor in a planking position and start doing push-ups. It's just a thing I got used to doing, when Alessio started sneaking girls over into our room about last year, and I had to sleep in the barn.

Racking up those 'unbelievably epic and understanding big brother' awards by the dozen, and all that.

Believe it or not, sleeping on hay isn't nearly as comfortable as it sounds, and I'm sure it doesn't sound all that comfortable either. So predictably, I'd wake up even earlier than I had to, when the sun wasn't even close to rising, and at some point, I just made up a routine and kind of stuck with it. To be fair, this was a two-way understanding with my brother, so I'm pretty sure Alessio found his own way to pass time, probably by creating wooden puzzles of some sort which I found lying around the barn at multiple occasions. But I've always found comfort in doing something repetitive, menial, physical.

Muscle memory takes over, and I keep going until I'm panting and sweating my ass off, on the carpet of the luxurious room. I get up, and head into the bathroom.

I take a long hot shower, relishing in the feeling.

Don't get me wrong, I subscribe to the idea of 'screw the Capitol and everything it stands for', but I'd be lying if I said their technology isn't something out of heaven.

I put on a light grey shirt, comfortable sweatpants and give myself a quick look-over in the mirror. I certainly look more in my element than yesterday, at the Chariots.

That was …uh… an _interesting_ experience. I certainly never thought I'd get literally drooled over by women and men ranging from twenty to eighty, but here we are. That's the Capitol for you: home of lecherous creeps and ridiculously amazing showers.

I head out the door at exactly 7AM, and walk into the lobby, with Glenn already slouching in his chair, a cereal bowl in his hands. I never understood people's obsession with cereals, because both of my grandparents always scoffed at this poor attempt at sustenance, even when food got tight. My grandpa's grandfather came from across the ocean from the Democratic Republic of Italia, and brought along many dishes and recipes that our family tried to uphold. Needless to say, some soggy floating fibers in milk-soup wasn't one of them.

Glenn sees me come in and smiles.

"Valentino, you're awake early," he greets me good-naturedly, while gesturing for me to take a seat, "had any trouble sleeping?"

"Nope!" I simply reply, and as an afterthought, I add, "You can call me Val if you like, Valentino just sounds like a mouthful this early in the day."

"Sounds good. But don't worry about 'early' for me, I've got a newborn, sleeping is kind of a foreign concept at this point," Glenn sighs, but a twinkle in his eye lets me know that he's somewhat joking.

I sit down, back straight, and take in visually the food in front of me. My stomach growls and I realize how long it's been since I've had a proper meal. I load a few potato hash-browns, some cold meat slices and beans onto my plate. I do it slowly, the way Grandma said I should when I'm trying to impress a girl. Only here, it ain't a girl I'm trying to impress… it's the guy who just might have my life in his hands, in a few days' time.

"You got some manners, for a farm boy," Glenn says, and I laugh.

"Farm boy with a grandmother who would murder me with a spoon if I didn't eat like a proper person," I answer, smiling at the memory of Grandma admonishing me and Alessio over supper.

"You're Enzo's boy, right?" Glenn pointedly asks, and I stiffen.

"Yep. Been raised by my grandparents since I was a kid, though," I answer, trying to change the subject and he drops the matter. I kind of hope he doesn't get into the whole deal with my parents because it's on the list of things I'm not down to discuss today or ever, really. They died when I was two, and there's really not much else to say about that.

Thankfully, he doesn't inquire any further.

Aderyn shows up bleary-eyed to breakfast and I smile at her. She plops down into a chair farthest away from me. Her hair is frizzy and unkept, and she's got bags under her eyes.

I try to catch her gaze, to make conversation, but she's focusing on anything but me, staring at something particularly interesting in the spoon she just picked up.

"So, when does training start?" I ask, awkwardly clearing my throat and hoping Aderyn will at least look up. I don't know what's wrong, apart from the fact that she might be taking this whole Hunger Games thing really brutally, which, now that I think of it, is a fairly reasonable reaction.

She seems to have a problem with me, in _particular_ though, and I'm kind of confused as to what I've done.

Glenn waves his hand.

"They told me they're starting training a little later this year, just to see whether it works better for intradistrict relations, since _that's_ what viewers apparently want," our mentor elaborates, shoving a delicious croissant into his mouth. Now _that's_ what you call good food.

"So you should be already at the Training center by 11, but before then, feel free to hang around and ….better intradistrict relations," he adds wiggling his fingers at Aderyn and me.

Now, I am infinitely more confused.

I'm usually a pretty approachable guy, especially with people younger than me. I don't remember ever having a person outright hate me just by looking at my face, and I've always tried to be as accommodating and polite as possible. But that's exactly what seems to be happening with Aderyn who has had a problem with me ever since we got on the train.

So, I'm really lost as to what I should do to mediate the animosity that is reaching me in waves from across the table. I think the worst part is that she's on edge, but she at least seemed to loosen up a little bit for the Chariots, but closed off immediately after, even though I tried talking to her and congratulating her on getting so many cheers from the crowd.

"Hey, uh, Aderyn, we weren't able to talk strategy yesterday, because you stormed … you sped away to your room yesterday, but I think now's as good of a time as ever," Glenn attempts, giving me a quick 'let me handle this' glance.

"Sure," she says, in between spoonfuls of chocolate pudding that she is shovelling into her mouth as though her life depended on it.

She looks up at Glenn, and adds, "y'can call me Addie."

"Cool! So, Val, you wanna catch _Addie_ up, about the stuff we talked about on the train?" Glenn says and Addie glares at him.

I swallow again.

"Yeah, okay, so we discussed strengths and weaknesses, and what potential allies we wanna have," I say uncertainly.

"I've worked on a cow farm my entire life, and I'm uh…pretty disciplined and hardworking and I guess I can lift stuff?" I venture, and she looks up, her eyes flashing up to mine quickly.

"Yeah, no shit, have you seen those arms?" she blurts out, immediately looking as though she simultaneously wants to swallow her tongue and get struck by lightning, and averts her eyes back to her pudding. She starts aggressively making swirly patterns in the mushy substance and I see her tanned cheeks become a deep shade of red. She scrunches up her nose, as though silently admonishing herself. That gesture reminds me so much of Alessio.

I continue as though I haven't heard.

"I could wield something fairly heavy, and a sword probably. Glenn also said I was friendly and pretty uh…." I pause, because somehow it just feels goddamn awkward saying it out loud about myself, "charming."

Addie gets redder and practically disappears in her big fluffy sweater.

"So, what about you, what kind of skills you've got?" I prode, hoping to get something other than stony silence and a progressively combustion-looking face from the girl in front of me.

"My mom's a butcher, so I guess I've done a lot of… butchering," she mumbles into her spoon.

"That's really good!" I encourage her, trying to get her to open up a bit. "I've always lived on a farm and killing the animals is the worst part, really hated it, so you must handle blood pretty well, that's useful."

Her eyes flicker up to mine and I see something like gratitude and hope in them, before she drops them back, biting her lip. She retreats back into her shell and I realized I must've said something wrong, again.

"Never killed, just cut up the meat, that's what a butcher does," Addie deadpans, shutting down any good-natured comment I could've made.

Glenn coughs, trying to save the situation and I look at him wide-eyed, like, 'please save me wise mentor, I'm clearly a lost cause.'

"No but I see you've got a build of someone who can stand their own in a fight," our mentor offers, and without a word, Addie dumps the rest of the content on her plate and stalks away back into her room.

Alright then.

"You should consider the Careers," Glenn tells me point-blank when we hear Addie's room door slam behind her.

"What about Addie," I ask right away. I know she's made it very clear she wants nothing to do with me, but I can't just abandon her like that. She's younger than my brother, and she might be someone's little sister. I frown when I realize I don't even know that.

Glenn just shrugs. "She makes her own decisions and I'll do my very utmost best to keep _both_ of you alive as long as possible. But I'll always respect her decisions because they're ultimately hers to make. And my recommendation to _you_ is to get on with the Careers."

"They're not fans of outer District kids joining," I counter, really not on board with the idea of being held to the same standard as the brutal-looking girl from District 2, or the sly boy from District 1.

"Besides…" I take a deep breath, "My parents were famous rebel warriors. They'll probably know my family name. They'll be more likely to skewer me on a stick and feast on my corpse than to let me into their team."

The fact of the matter is that I don't trust Addie. I don't know anything about her, and so far, she's been pretty adamant to not talk to me at all about anything so no, I don't _trust_ her. But the same applies to literally everyone else, and at least she's a small piece of home in this hell fest. And she's probably going to be flying under the radar, more so than the agglomeration of psychologically challenged murderers which the Careers are surely going to be.

So, if I had to pick the Careers or Addie for alliances, I know who I'd rather go with.

"Nah, you severely overestimate the way information travels between districts. I might know your parents because they were kind of a big thing when I was younger, kinda my idols really, but that kind of information is pretty much archaic. For better or for worse, everyone is pretty much ignorant of that stuff now," Glenn says. "As long as you're not going to _advertise_ yourself as a rebel, which I really recommend you _don't_ do, you should be more than fine."

"Thanks Glenn, I appreciate it," I answer, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

I'll really have to mull this over and if I'm being completely honest, the idea of me making the kind of decision which might mean life or death at the end of the line, is making the dread creep into my heart.

I glance at the clock and it's barely 8AM.

"Think it over, Val, you've got plenty of time. In the meantime, I'll go talk to Addie, see if she's gonna be more cooperative once this," he gestures at my entire body, "is out of the equation."

He smirks, as though he made some private joke, and I'm still just as confused as before.

"Let me know what you decide," he calls from the hallway.

"Thanks man," I yell back, shoving another croissant into my mouth.

I have no clue what I'm going to decide, but Glenn's probably right. And I've got three hours to figure this shit out and make a choice, Addie or no Addie.

* * *

_Notes: Here you have it, my friends, the clueless heartthrob from District 10, Valentino Ricci! Let me know what you think of him and if you didn't like him, just picture Ricci Granny aggressively screaming at you in broken Italian…I'm sure that'll change your mind real fast. _

_Next up, Addie! We'll touch base with the post-chariot events from her side of things, see what's up with her being so anti-social towards Val. _

_Other cool news: Last weekend, I went ahead and hiked 22Km on a hill, and let's just say I've gotten firsthand experience as to how it feels to have your knees be completely obliterated. Will this be useful information for when I write the arena? Only time will tell. _

_Peace and love. _


	23. Chapter 20: District 10 Aderyn Klossner

**Aderyn 'Addie' Klossner**

**District 10 Female, 15  
****First Morning at the Capitol**

* * *

Stupid stupid stupid Valentino Ricci.

Damn him and his stupid hair, and stupid smile and stupid face!

Already I'm here in this fucking mess, but no, I need to be stuck with him here, too.

I slam the door shut when I make it back to my room, because I couldn't sleep for shit last night, just rolling around in my bed, throwing my covers on and off as though I was about to have a damn seizure. Slamming things helps.

And to top things off, someone downstairs kept on making noise, and I just couldn't close my eyes for even five minutes. That's a great start for what is probably going to be my last week on this Earth, halle-fucking-lujah. So, if the person residing under my room had any plans of sleeping in today, _tough luck buddy_, should have thought of that earlier before you started going berserk in the middle of the goddamn night.

For breakfast, I genuinely thought food was going to make things better, but then Ricci was already there, obviously, and soured my mood to hell.

So now I'm here, just sitting on my bed, thinking about how fucking convoluted the universe must be to put me in the Hunger Games with Valentino, the son of the famous Enzo Ricci who instigated some of the most complicated terrorist and stealth operations in Panem history.

I'm fifteen, I'm not a kid no more. I was born during the war and my dad was a Peacekeeper with the Capitol forces, so you could call me a Capitol-leaning citizen. I know there's a lot left to be desired in our country, me being reaped _case in point_, but my dad always said they're the ones that paid our bills, so some minimal support was to be expected.

Now one thing to know about me, it's that I don't particularly hate the rebels, either. They did what they had to do, and they lost. That's the way things are and I've always tried to instill a basic kind of neutrality within me, despite my dad's profession which gave me a bit of a biased view from the start.

But in life, even if you will it, sometimes stuff just can't be simple. It sure as hell ain't simple with Valentino and me being reaped together.

I pass a hand through my frizzled hair, in vain.

The thing is my father was on the Peacekeeping unit that executed Enzo Ricci and his wife, arguably the most famous rebel officers of the District. And a few months, later, he lost his squad and his legs to a bomb planted by the couple, a kind of 'see you in hell bastards!' move if I've ever seen one. And it would have been fucking poetic if it wasn't my dad and it hadn't impacted our family's life as much as it did.

But the fact still stands that Enzo Ricci and Vera Faithlen made my dad into yet another handicapped war veteran that can't provide for his family. That took a toll on my mom and I think that's what made her so sullen and withdrawn. I think that the little love my parents had for each other got pulverized alongside my dad's legs that day, and I'd be lying if I didn't think it was at least a little depressing.

This happened about seven or eight months before I was born too, so my poor mother was left fending for herself as she grew larger and larger. My father was busy fighting off sepsis, on pain medication and other drugs that really did jackshit in the long run.

I was born into a world where no matter how much you try to forget and move on, the past always comes to bite you in the ass sooner or later. Valentino and I have way too much baggage to ever get along, whether I ever tell him or not.

Now, I've never been the most easy-going person around here. I know I'm not exactly peachy to get along with, I've got enough self-awareness to realize that much. But I don't think it strictly helped that both my parents have been shut off in their own little bubbles of trauma ever since I was an agglomeration of cells inside my mother. My father's been assigned to administrative work and he's always wanted me to be something more.

Not that he ever really established _what_ exactly he wanted for me. No one ever really bothered.

When I was waiting for the goodbyes, my mother wheeled in my father and the most tragic part is how awkward the whole ordeal was.

It was cringe-inducing because we all had _nothing_ to say, so we just tersely hugged and they wished me luck. Again, I try to be a pragmatic as possible in normal situation, but being reaped ain't normal by any accounts. Hell, if I was a betting girl, I'd gamble on the fact that our stupid escort will show more emotion when I'm shoved up into the tube that leads to the arena.

Maybe it's a little juvenile, but I allow myself to hyperfocus on the fact that my weird-ass life turned out the way it is because of a cascade of events that all lead up to Ricci's parents.

So, yeah, it's a _little_ personal.

And Valentino has no idea.

That's probably the thing that irks me the most and sets my hair on end.

He goes around bumbling like an idiot, flashing smiles and showing off his muscles without even trying, and he doesn't know what his parents have done to my family. What my father did to his.

Somehow, my screwed-up brain fixates on that fact more than anything else.

I'm literally spiralling.

Maybe I wouldn't be so antagonistic if we were back in District 10. I'd just stay clean and avoid him, but here, combined with the stress of thinking through my strategy, choosing allies, and trying to survive, I just can't seem to cope with the knowledge that his father instigated the attack that crippled my father, ruined my mother. I can't stand the fact that he's here smiling at me when my own father ripped _his_ to shreds with bullets.

It's as though our families were fated to destroy each other until none of us were left intact.

There a knock on my door which interrupts my musings.

At first, I'm tempted to just let the person on the other side of the door knock until the end of time.

I don't answer, just sit pouting there with my arms crossed.

Glenn's gruff voice echoes through the door.

"Let me in, Addie, I have some chocolate eclairs."

Those are good shit. Never had them until today, but they're amazing. I reconsider and unlock the door.

Glenn comes in with a bemused expression on his face.

"You know, I wasn't planning on giving anyone The Talk until Ophelia was at least fourteen, but…" he trails away, and I retreat back to my bed.

What does The Talk have anything to do with this? Where are the eclairs?

Realizing I've been duped, I double-down on the negativity in my facial expression.

"I know what _sex_ is, what the hell does this have to do with anything?" I yell at him, a little aggressively, considering I know he's supposed to try his best to save my life with sponsors and whatnot.

His eye grows to the size of a saucer and I become suddenly defensive. I'm _fifteen_, in a district known for its intense macho dudes and easy-going chicks. No wonder our teenage pregnancy rate is highest in the entire country. Does he think I was raised in a barn?

"Yeah, that's _right_, my parents taught me, I know what it is, and I'm not some District 10 slut who will go around sleeping with other tributes," I continue, my tone hitching slightly up because I'm so flustered.

If even for a second I thought that's what Glenn expected to hear, that illusion is shattered.

"God _no_, _ew_, oh my god, you're FIFTEEN, I wasn't talking about that at ALL… parents talk about _that_ with their kids?" he reels back, obviously caught off guard and I stifle a nasty chuckle. It's funny to see District 10's legendary if-somewhat-alienated Victor shy away from me like a traumatized puppy.

"Normal parents anyways, my parents aren't normal by any accounts and my mom _still_ pulled me aside in the butcher's shop and demonstrated with …" I start mimicking, but am interrupted by a clearly even more freaked-out Glenn who shields his remaining eye with one hand and starts waving the other in front of me.

"Okayyyyy let's _stop_ this discussion right there, I have _no_ interest in knowing how your parents taught you about _this_, I was here to talk to you about being able to handle your _emotions_ around guys, none of that gross shit," he stumbles over his words, as though trying to block out the image of little nine-year-old me being taught by my mother the birds and the bees by way of sausages and meats in a very mechanistic and detailed way.

"Also don't go calling people sluts, that's not polite! My wife got pregnant real' young and we're doing just fine!"

To come to think of it, it was a pretty fucking uncomfortable discussion but pretty much everything is, in my household, so there you go. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was still all knees and elbows, and my mom just regurgitated all that information, very graphically might I add, and ended the discussion with a promise to never talk about it again.

Not the healthiest of ways to deal with things, but again, my family isn't known for that anyways.

Glenn waves his hand again, in front of my face and I snap back into attention, fuming.

"I'm here because I've seen how you act around Val, and I wanted to let you know that you can _talk_ to me, about your… problems," Glenn restarts, shaking his head as though trying to dispel whatever misunderstanding we had before.

He's clearly not doing a very good job, judging from his traumatized facial expression.

It's like he's really trying to be that thoughtful kind girl friend whose shoulder you can cry on, except he's an almost-thirty-year-old man with facial hair and one eyes which screams of 'get me out of here!'.

"I ain't got feelings for that Ricci guy, I didn't even talk to him!" I counter, getting angry, and very visibly red because of the anger and nothing _else_.

It's _true_!

Glenn deadpans. "Yeah, sure, that's why you've been staring at his arms with stars in your eyes the entire time we were at the table."

"That's not _TRUE_!" I scream, getting really embarrassed because okay _fine_, Valentino's arms are the size of cantaloupes but that doesn't mean shit!

"Gahhhh, I don't know how to even do this, why can't Jasmine just handle it," Glenn says as though he's talking to an audience, exasperated beyond belief.

"Who's Jasmyn?" I ask, visibly intrigued and happy with the change of subject.

"No, you're not changing the subject that quickly, little lady!" Glenn points an accusatory finger at me.

Nevermind, I spoke too soon.

"Geez, no wonder you've got repressed issues deeper than the Grand Canyon," Glenn sighs, and I wheel around to face him again.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you need to get your shit together! Val's not a bad guy! And you need to tell me what's bothering you and get over whatever weird crush-obsession-thing girls have at your age," Glenn says, and I hit my knee with a clenched fist in frustration.

"I don't like him!"

"Then what is it?!"

I bite down my tongue and stay silent.

"Addie, you need to tell me so I can damage-control the shit out of this situation, this is how we're gonna do it around here, okay?" Glenn says a little softer, edging closer to where I'm sitting.

I deflate like a party balloon being man-handled by a giant toddler.

"Ricci's…you know how before I came in, you mentioned Ricci's dad being this rebel officer thing? I heard you say it. Well, my dad was on the squad that offed the man. And then one of Ricci's bombs went off while my dad was out scouting, and sent his whole team to kingdom come."

Glenn stays silent for a few seconds too long.

"So we've got a history," I conclude, swallowing painfully. Weirdly enough, now that the truth is out there, I'm terrified. I know Glenn and his wife were very young, but my dad was never too fond of them either, since they were also part of the rebel factions that caused quite a bit of trouble before Glenn was reaped. I don't want him to hate me, because I really had nothing to do with it. As I've mentioned before, I'm a staunch supporter of minding my own business and not poking into people's opinions too much.

"Damn, kid."

"Yeah. _Damn_. And Valentino's just so nice and sweet and I can't be that asshole who just rolls with that, because his parents are dead and mine had a direct link to that."

Glenn runs a hand through his hair, releasing a huge sigh like he's also deflating, slowly but surely.

"_Yikes_, am I right?"

I don't say anything, just nod. And then I take the leap because for once in my life, it feels nice to just be listened to.

For once, I really can't stand feeling like I'm alone against the entire world.

"And it doesn't help that he's literally the most beautiful stupid human being I've seen, so there you have it, you're not allowed to tease me about it-"

Glenn interrupts me, a chuckle building up at the back of his throat before erupting into a full-on laugh.

"I told you! Hah! See? We're doing it, we're bonding!"

I swat him in the arm, but can't help the smile that illuminates my features. Maybe I've gone completely insane.

It feels better though.

"Please don't tell Valentino, okay?" I practically beg, because I'm pretty sure I'd have my head mounted on a pike, no matter how nice he's been acting towards me. That's how people work in District 10, and no matter how neutral I claim to be now, blood feuds like this aren't easily forgotten.

Glenn pats me on the shoulder.

"First off, whatever your parents did has nothing to do with you. Second, in the past decade, we got over having a full-on civil war, do you really think I'm gonna re-open old wounds like that?"

I mull it over. "I guess not."

"The part about you admitting he's 'literally the most beautiful stupid human being you've ever seen' however is not necessarily off lim-"

He's interrupted by the pillow I send flying straight to his head. It says volumes about me that I'm equally mortified about Glenn telling Valentino about me _maybe_ crushing on him as I am about him discovering my dad's involvement in his parents' execution. Volumes.

I clamp a hand on my mouth because _what the hell,_ the guy is still twice my age and my mentor and…

Glenn dissolves into a fit of laughter and throws the pillow back, hitting me in the head.

I just can't help it, my face splits into another smile and I start giggling too. When we both calm down, I get serious again, and I feel the words inside my mouth before releasing them in a torrent.

I tell Glenn a lot of stuff that I maybe shouldn't, but the more I talk, the less unsure I feel about the tangled feelings within my brain. To his credit, he doesn't run out, screaming about how his tribute is an absolute lunatic. He sits there listening to me rant.

You'd think the worst part of this entire clusterfuck would be the fact that I want revenge, I want to maim Valentino the same way his deceased father did with mine. But really, there's that gnawing and all-consuming guilt that Valentino doesn't know that my father contributed to his parents' eventual execution. It makes me want to vomit every time I see him smile at me kindly.

Once I run out of breath and energy, I just kind of sag into the bed, and Glenn pats my shoulder again.

"How's that for a talk? Graphic enough for you?" I ask, teasing Glenn and snickering as his serious face melts into a smirk.

"Man, Addie, I don't know what to say, you really have a knack to make conversations weird as hell, don't you?" he sighs, this time with a little less exasperation.

"To be fair, you're the one who was freaking unclear about what you wanted to talk about,…_The Talk_," I say, smiling a little and imitating him as he came into my room.

"Hey! I literally said I wanted to have The Talk, how the hell am I supposed to know that also means ….all that other shit?!"

"You're a parent, you're supposed to know these things!"

"In my defense, I was one-hundred percent convinced that this Talk only consisted of dissuading your kid from ever dating boys, end of story. Feelings and emotions processed and handled," he claps his hands and then shakes his head laughing. "I can't believe Raella never corrected even me on this."

I giggle.

"So when you came into this room, your plan was to …what? Tell me the mechanics of liking boys and how to suppress the shit out of those feelings? I'm a real human being you know, flesh and blood, I got desires too," I reason, still smirking.

"Okay, you literally need to stop, can I remind you that you're fifteen and I'm twice your age and I really don't need to picture all this stuff in my head? I have enough horrifying shit up in here," he counters, tapping his head with his index finger.

I stick out my tongue at him, but don't add anything else.

"Now get off your butt, we've got some eclairs to finish off because 'muscle man' over there insisted we leave some for you because he _noticed_ you enjoyed them on the train."

I turn around nodding, trying to hide my face which keeps on doing that blushing thing it does. Needless to say, I'm not a fan.

"I saw that!"

"No, you didn't," I yell back, but Glenn's already out the door, knowing I'll follow soon.

I sigh, and head out of the room.

Nothing's resolved, but I already feel like a load has been taken off my shoulders.

Maybe all it takes is a friend to keep you from digging yourself into a hole of stress and doubt. Maybe this talk is exactly what I needed to put things into perspective. My father still killed Enzo Ricci sixteen-odd years ago. He still got his legs blown off, that'll never change. And odds are I'll never tell Valentino because _what's the point_. But at least I'm not agonizing about it alone.

I know I'm not out of the woods just yet, and chances are I'll never be. But at least someone actually knows what's going on through my head, and I feel like just that makes a world of difference.

* * *

_Notes: Please give a warm round of applause for Addie from District 10! Just a teenage girl from a dysfunctional family with some issues, but we love her anyways, don't we folks? Tell me what you think of this good child. _

_Can we all please acknowledge the fact that Glenn is literally unprepared to be a parent? Can we also acknowledge the fact that he's really trying his darnedest? What did you think of his evolving relationship with Addie?_

_We've only got two districts to cover before we dive deep into training and beyond, so I hope you guys are at least as excited about this as I am! _

_Peace and love. _


	24. Chapter 21: District 11 Tyree

_Allusion to child abuse and rape, so if you're not alright reading this, please be advised. This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write and although I tried my best to stay fairly superficial in terms of descriptions, it can be triggering to some. There's no play-by-play because I cannot write that stuff at ALL, but it's still a difficult read. _

* * *

**Tyree**

**District 11 Male, 12  
****First Morning at the Capitol**

* * *

No one really comes to wake me up, which I find a little weird.

I just lie there, on the hard surface of the floor, taking deep breaths and frowning a little bit, because my routine is all jumbled up. Breathing like this always makes me feel a little better.

My shoulder blades etch into the wood beneath me, and I try to roll my shoulders to take away the ache in the small of my back.

Daddy always warned me about sleeping on comfy surfaces too often. He says it makes you go soft too, which isn't good. Every time he'd find me sleeping in, on my bed, he'd mention how he knew some kids that melted into their bed, and I was always so scared of that happening. Now that I'm a little older, I have my doubts about whether that's _really_ possible, but the idea is still scary. I'm sure Daddy just loved me so much he wanted the best for me.

Stretching my neck a little bit, I crank my head, so that it's the only thing off the floor.

I look down, and see my whole body splayed out in front of me. My toes, curling in circles as I stretch my feet, my hands drumming on the wooden surface I chose to sleep on and my chest, rising up and up and up, until I exhale, and it flattens back down.

Up and down, my belly puffing up like a balloon. It's amusing to look at.

I would have thought Casmir would have come to see me by now.

Casmir told me he was going to mentor me, but I don't really understand what that means yet. He said he won the Hunger Games, and that I'm in them now, and I didn't really understand that either because I've been less hungry on this trip than ever before. I guess I'll know in the next few days.

He's a big man, just like Daddy. Same dark eyes, and everything, you could almost say they're brothers, but he told me they're not related.

I really don't understand why he didn't come to see me.

It feels like the room is starting to boil, or maybe it's just my skin heating up at the idea that this is going to be another day of me being locked up in my room all by myself. I really hated when that happened, because it would just get so lonely.

I hug Herbert, my plushy toy, and keep breathing slowly. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not where I used to be, here, I'm the one that can lock the door, not the other way around.

I stroke Herbert's head affectionately at the thought of having control of the door.

Herbert is my best friend. He's the only one I could talk to, apart from Daddy. Daddy's always been so strict about the people I can and can't talk to, and I guess it makes sense because there's a lot of people out there that want to hurt you.

Maybe I did something wrong yesterday, and I didn't realize. That happens a lot of the time. Maybe that's why Casmir hasn't visited. Daddy always said I am a little slow when it comes to realizing things.

I just don't really _know_ anything, that's the deal.

I've always just known the walls of our house. Especially the dark cold ones of my room. I've known the little beady eyes of the rats that came to visit, too, but I didn't like them too much because they'd try to steal my food. When I was nice, Daddy would let me visit the other parts of the house, the ones made of wood. That's why I like this floor so much, it reminds of the pretty rooms upstairs, not the dark ugly one where I used to sleep.

I know my life was not all bad, because otherwise Daddy wouldn't have gotten so mad when I left for a bit, about a year ago. He was _so_ frustrated! I shudder just at the thought of me sheepishly knocking on the front door, because I wasn't tall enough to climb back through a window and keep it all a secret.

His face… I'm not sure what kind of feelings were going through his head, but I can guarantee they weren't the good ones. I laughed a little at first, at the way his eyes bulged out of his head and the way his mouth kept opening and closing, as though he was Freddy the Foolish Fish out of my favorite cartoon.

I didn't laugh after when he roughly brought me downstairs, locked the door and screamed so hard that spittle flew from his mouth and the walls felt like they were going to collapse on my head.

My plan had been so perfect! I picked the door lock, I left through the window, and the idea was to climb back right when I was done. Before Daddy came home to share his day with me, hug me so hard and tell me everything was going to be fine.

And I … I didn't _just_ betray him. I asked him many times to go, but he always didn't allow me. I gave him the best arguments, too. I told him I'd come back, and I did! I thought I was being a good boy, but he said I was ungrateful for thinking of leaving like that. Maybe it's true.

I tried explaining to him that I wanted to play outside. He told me it was bad that I liked other games than the ones we played at home.

He seemed to really enjoy those and they weren't _horrible_, but it's just that you know, it gets old sometimes. I just wanted to see whether there were other toys out in the world. Other people I could talk to and hug.

The worst part is that I really liked the outside world. I almost didn't come back. When Daddy locked me up after screaming at me, I felt justified in my feelings, but now I'm starting to understand that maybe I was wrong. I almost _didn't_ come back and that's pretty selfish.

But I met another person my age. Actually, persons. They were nice, and one of them was pale and had the weirdest hair I've ever seen. Even on TV, I hadn't seen anything like that.

Bean, Miller and Thorn. Spud. Those were their names and I kept whispering them to Herbert, to not forget them, because I really wanted to meet them again one day.

Daddy said that if I went on stage yesterday, I'd be able to see them again, and play with them. He said he allowed me to, because it was a special occasion. I think he made a mistake because I didn't see them, but that's okay, there's still plenty of time. Casmir doesn't know who they are either, but I'll just keep asking.

I wonder what my new friends are doing now.

I sit up straight because I can hear voices from outside my room.

I've always had really good hearing, and on days when I'd be alone, with no food, I'd just sit there and listen to things.

Sometimes I'd imagine hearing stuff, when really there was only the hum of the refrigerator a few rooms away.

Daddy sometimes got really mad when I asked him about conversations he had outside my room. Those were the days when he wouldn't hug me gently. He wouldn't even let me sit with him and wouldn't pat me on my leg, nicely.

He'd push me into my bed and make me hurt all over, and those weren't the nice days.

I'd always forgive him, of course, because he'd be gentle afterwards. And it's not like I couldn't forgive him, because he was so much stronger than I was.

But Daddy isn't here right now, because he told me to come here. So, I could listen to what's going on. Maybe I could even ask Casmir about it later, and he could tell me what he meant before, on the train.

I still don't understand why he seemed so afraid of me, I was just trying to be nice.

Casmir's voice rises, and I quietly open my door, hug Herbert, and inch slowly towards the common room. The pale pink-lady is there too.

They seem to be having a really heated discussion, and I know I shouldn't listen in on what people say, but I do it anyways. I'm curious.

"I don't know, I should report this to the Peacekeeping unit of District 11. Who know how many children he's got hunkered down there."

"This seems barbaric. After the Games are over, I think this will be your main priority."

I don't really grasp the point of what they're talking, but that's fine, I'm being really sneaky right now, and I feel pride swell in my chest. I snicker to myself.

What would Daddy think?

"Tyree doesn't seem to want to talk about it _at all_. So I just…I don't know if there's more kids…" Casmir trails off, and I can hear him sighing. I don't understand why he's so upset.

"I mean come on, the kid doesn't understand basic human interaction! He tried to make a _move_ on me," I hear the weird-looking pink lady guffaw loudly, or maybe she gasps, I can never really tell with human sounds like that.

"He's twelve…he's freaking _twelve_ years old…what kind of abuse he had to go through to turn out like this?"

I frown.

I guess I made a mistake and I didn't really understand what Casmir wanted. I only tried to make him happy, but now I'm second-guessing myself. He didn't hit me though, so I didn't think he was _that_ upset.

Maybe this isn't how everyone expresses their disappointment.

I almost want to round the corner and explain myself, to tell him that he's really nice and I wouldn't mind him being my new Daddy for now, but I stop. Maybe now's not the time. Daddy always got so mad when I had bad timing.

I strain my ears, trying to hear more from the conversation.

Something in my chest starts racing, thumping, as though it's going to escape. I have a bad feeling about this.

"He affirms he's always lived in the same house… Elora… I think he's one of the kids who was orphaned when District 11's big fire happened."

"I'm sorry Casmir, I don't follow…"

"We've always been a tight district, we ain't got that many secrets we _all_ don't know about. Back when District 1's Jasmyn won, our tributes were murdered pretty quickly. I remember mentoring the girl, Lou, she was kind. She was pregnant too, and she got cut up so bad by the Careers our entire district rioted. They said her reaping was rigged… maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. The fact is that Mayor's house burned that week. Lots of people died."

It's as though his words are tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall. I saw those on the television Daddy installed in my room, and I always thought they were beautiful. I liked the documentaries even more than I liked the cartoons.

"Forgive me Casmir, I still don't understand."

"Sorry Elora, I … it was a bad time for our district. I tried to intervene as much as I could, to keep the peace, but there's really not much to do when an angry mob comes at you. So, the Mayor's house burned, and all the maids, the staff…they all burned with it. Elora, you don't understand, most of them had kids, you know? Had little kids of one, two, three years old."

"That's terrible Casmir. I'm so sorry…"

"You think at three years old anyone can fend for themselves? They can't. The Peacekeepers have been trying to find them all for years, put them into proper orphanages. But there's some screwed-up people out there, Elora. They took the kids. I did some digging… Tyree's the right age to be one of them."

I wait patiently, going from foot to foot, as Casmir sighs again and I hear his hand slap something with quite a bit of force.

The familiarity of the sounds makes me flinch a little bit, but Daddy always said I should like it. I shouldn't shy away like this. So I stay put.

"I was a young Victor then, I was going around hospitals, doing charity work. And when the Mayor's house burned they started loading in the casualties. They kept bringing in the burnt victims on stretchers. It was a Code Orange throughout the hospital. It smelled of flesh and vomit, and I remember seeing these burnt slabs of meat moving, squirming, some of them wailing for help. They all died because we didn't have the means to save them. Some of them were screaming for their babies."

I hear Elora stand up, and pat Casmir on the back while sighing sadly too.

"About two years ago, one of my Peacekeeper friends told me about a bust they made about three or four years ago. They found little kids chained to walls in a basement. There was maybe 10 of them, all filthy and underfed. My friend said they were used as drug mules throughout the District. They were all the orphans of the maids that died in the Mayor's house. I saw them all, being transferred to a community home… they were all crying for drugs, for their mothers that they hadn't seen in years, for their captor… it was horrible."

Elora's heels click-clack a little and shift my feet to the rhythm of her steps.

"So, you think another drug lord kidnapped Tyree?"

"I think it's worse… I don't know… he might have been involved in some child sex trafficking scheme. I have nightmares just thinking about it."

I shudder, because there really never was anyone apart from Daddy. I don't remember it at least.

"If you want, I can make some phone calls and we can solve this while you're here. It would only take a few days..."

Casmir gets up as well, and I push myself against the wall, making myself completely small small small, so they don't see me.

"Thank you Elora, but I think this is a matter I need to resolve on my own. I really appreciate your support, but … it's my district and I need to be the one to do this."

"Very well. I'm sorry Casmir. This is an unfortunate situation. I hope you can get through to the boy, and get some additional information before…"

I don't understand, but I don't want to hear anymore, so I block it out.

Daddy was mad at me, so he told me to come here. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I'm not liking all the weird stuff they're saying, so I hug my plushy toy closer to my chest, and tiptoe back to my room.

I feel a bubble of helplessness start going up my throat and my lip starts trembling, but I push it down with all my might. I can't be sad right now. I'm not allowed.

I'm in a new world, a world I never thought I'd discover. I know Daddy's been punishing me a lot lately and that's why I'm out here, but this doesn't _feel_ like punishment, it's actually really interesting, with all the new food and technology and people.

He said I'd find my new friends here, so I know I shouldn't worry too much, and I know Casmir is trying to help.

Casmir said I have a bit more time before we have to go. I don't know where we're going, but I'm excited to see new things and that's exactly what I focus on, instead of the rising knot in my chest. I'm not a baby anymore, I'm not _allowed_.

I know daddy was angry when he was sending me here, telling me I had to get on the stage and make sure they took me, but he still meant good. Right?

I bite down on Herbert, and keep breathing through my nose deeply. Daddy gave me Herbert so that I can do _this_, while he hugged me, because sometimes it wouldn't be too nice, but Herbert always felt like comfort. Herby's all screwed up now, with one eye missing and a half torn-off arm dangling uselessly on the side, but I still love him. Even when people go ugly, you don't stop loving them.

When I make it back to the room, it feels all too similar to that day when I sneaked out of my home and came back. This time, I got away with it unnoticed, but somehow, I just feel worse because I just can't seem to _understand what everyone is saying_. What does this mean?

I lie back down on the floor, still hugging Herbert and biting down on his left ear because I don't want to cry.

This is going to be an adventure. An adventure.

Daddy was right about this being an adventure. No matter what Casmir and Elora were talking about, I'm sure he meant _good_. Adventures always seemed so fun in the cartoons.

My grip on Herbert loosens up a little bit, and I smile because Daddy always said that if you smile on the outside, you'll smile inside too.

I think I'm going to learn to really like adventures.

I promise this to myself.

* * *

_Notes: Gahhhh this was the hardest chapter to write, sweet lord, I feel like I need to douse myself in holy water. Here's little Tyree from District 11. There's just… so many things wrong here. I hope you still enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully I didn't completely screw up writing from the perspective of a horribly abused twelve-year old boy. Please let me know what you think, I always appreciate any reviews out there._

_On to less horrible things, next chapter we will see Jessamine who's doing just a little better than this guy. We've only got 3 more tributes until we're introduced to everyone, so I'm excited!_

_Peace and love. _


	25. Chapter 22: District 11 Jessamine Law

**Jessamine Law **

**District 11 Female, 16  
****First Morning at the Capitol**

* * *

I stay in my room, even though I'm starving. There's something comforting about the illusion of choice I've got right now, what with me not being called in to work in the fields or rushing to get to school on time. It's the same insidious comforting feeling, that inkling of relief I felt when I was reaped. When my brain involuntarily screamed "not another day of the same monotone shit ever again!" before I buried those traitorous thoughts beneath the many layers of grief and dread. I felt so horrible afterwards, because my family doesn't deserve for me to feel this way. They've done literally everything to provide me with a good life, and I genuinely don't want to leave my parents and brothers. Even more, I don't want to disappoint them, and there's so much leeway for me to do exactly that, here.

For my parents, it's always been about me making a better life for myself than they ever had. They never really stopped reminding me that my brothers and I were all war children, but that that shouldn't stop us from reaching new heights. In fact, it's as though their obsession with living through us took a warped turn because of the opportunities they were robbed of as young adults, when the old country was falling apart, and they were trying their best to stay afloat in a disintegrating society.

I guess they always believed I'd end up graduating, getting a degree in Agricultural Management Science or something equally prestigious in our district. I had the grades for it, or at least that's what I've led them to believe.

It's not like I had abysmal grades either, you know? Just a matter of perspective and slight tinkering with the numbers to keep up the illusion that I was the stellar brilliant daughter they always thought I was…

The truth is that over the years, I just got so damn tired of studying, and the subjects just got harder and harder. I'm smart, technically, I _know_ that. I wouldn't have been selected to continue on with school when most other girls in District 11 are forced out to the fields full-time by the age of fifteen. The school administration even sent my parents a shiny letter stating I had "leader potential", which is just a fancy way of saying they set their eyes on me to replace our sector's field manager once the older woman retired.

Now, if there's one thing you want to know about District 11, it's that the people there don't rise above rank. If you're destined to be a field worker, you're gonna be geared towards that since the ripe old age of six.

With my brothers and I, it was a little different.

Because of our parents' high expectations, something _happened_, in our brains or in the way we perceive the world, and we actually managed to get ahead when we really should have just kept our heads low. It's not all bad, because William, my eldest brother, gets paid 1.5 times the amount he should be getting, just on the virtue on his education he fought tooth and nail for. And he's got a pretty high-up position.

It's harder for guys in District 11, too, so he's viewed as a real goddamn hero by the rest of us.

It's just…

On evenings where I literally can't focus on my homework, the concepts swimming in front of my eyes as my mind propels itself towards random scenarios and stories that just seem infinitely more entertaining… _that's_ when I think about how we're killing ourselves to achieve something so fragile.

Like, do I really need this constant stress, this pressure that threatens to overwhelm me, when all I get in the end is a potentially higher salary and a tap on the back?

William thought it was worth it, so maybe there is something there.

The only quarrel my parents have with Will is the fact that he went off and married Mikka, an orchard girl from the neighboring sector. They wanted him to finish _more_ studies, get a higher raise, keep working his way up. But he confronted them about it and said enough was enough. Some days, I wonder how he did it, because I'm struggling so much and feel like every day is when I finally crack.

But I don't have an excuse like he did, I'm not as old and I haven't even gotten an ounce of his success, so until yesterday morning, I was pretty sure I'd be groveling and stressing until either I succeeded or succumbed under the pressure.

Deep down in my heart, I know Will did the right thing, and I don't know if I'd ever have the courage to confront my parents like he did. I'll never have to find out, now, which again, causes a surge of momentary and traitorous relief to flood my system.

I mean, _that_ argument wasn't pretty, but we all get along now, same as before.

Well, not same, per say, because Will moved out about a year ago and it _sucks_, not having him around. But that's just the cycle of life and the idea of constant _change_. Which, by the way, is a concept I'm not super on board with, as a general rule of thumb.

I never really shared with anyone the extent of how Will's departure screwed me up. My parents just got infinitely worse, not laying off of me for even a second, and I just can't seem to focus like I used to, so it's _hard_. I mean, I was never stellar at it, but now, some days, it just feels like my mind is racing from one subject to the other with zero intention to stop. Sometimes it gets so bad, that I can't tear my attention away or hold it when needed, so it sends me spiralling because everyone seems to do with such ease and no one goddamn believes me when I tell them I just can't.

Columbine and Cosmo understand, but not to the extent that Will did.

Even as I'm here, all alone, my mind is jumping all over the place. It's nice to not have constant exams, presentations and surprise tests to worry about, but instead, memories of the reaping and the goodbyes resurface, which just makes me feel even more guilty. My mom kept saying that I should do my best, here. She kept telling me I was _always_ the best, so it shouldn't be any different now. I know she meant good by it, with tears in her eyes, but it just rubs me the wrong way.

Because, she hasn't really bothered to know the real me, for a few years now. The _me_ that has to finish her work in under an hour, and move on to the next big thing because she can't goddamn _focus_ on one thing for too long or it feels like her brain is about to burst out of her skull.

That's the thing with my parents. They've always provided for the four of us, loved us, but they turned a blind eye to issues like these and it certainly didn't help, in retrospect.

My mom thinks that I've never had any trouble intuitively succeeding, as though the Hunger Games are going to be the same thing. In retrospect, I wish I told her just how much I freaking struggled every day, just to complete my homework, to focus on the teacher's voice when it kept droning on and on in the morning when all I wanted to do was gather apples and jump in the fields or read one more of Will's books that he let me borrow.

The thing is that I don't even know how all my studying, all my work is going to help me in this situation. And frankly, that's the most innerving part of it all. My body bears the marks of the agonizing anxiety that threatened to overtake me in waves throughout the night.

I've got bags under my eyes, and scratches all along the palms of my hands and wrists.

It's not _that_ different from the usual pre-midterm stress-fueled front I put up, but the difference is now I'm days away from fighting to the death and there's no perfect study guide or astutely constructed lie to get me out of this unscathed.

The fact of the matter is that I'm stuck in a place I am completely unfamiliar with, and I have no idea what is needed for me to succeed. I mean, I _know_, murder and all, but I don't want to think about that just yet. It's all the stuff before, the training, the scores and the interviews that send me spiraling.

I wish I could get some bloody decent advice, but everyone seems busy with other things and that's what really gets to me. Casmir is distant, but I think it just has to do with the fact that he doesn't know how to deal with Tyree.

The little boy is so young, but there's something off about him that I can't really place. Casmir probably figured it out, but he hasn't shared it with me. He probably sees me as the older and more mature tribute, so he's left me to my own devices because his hands are full, with the more fragile of the two kids he was assigned with.

A little selfishly, I miss being the youngest, when everyone would flock to me to help whenever I had a problem. That's one of the perks of growing up with three older brothers.

You hustle and you learn to fight rough, but in the end, they'll always have your back to deal with any threat.

I sigh because the sadness crashes into me like a wave, once again. My heart aches, just thinking about my brothers back home. The way they must feel, not being able to protect me… I really hope I can make them proud.

I miss William worst of all. I love Columbine and Cosmo so much, but my eldest brother is the one who always supported me in everything I did, and it's just so hard to be here without him. It's been hard ever since he married and moved out, but now it's like, hey, I'm literally thousands of miles away, about to be shipped off to god-knows-where for a death match. So, it's not really the same caliber, if you think hard enough.

I just wish I could hear anyone's advice on what I should be doing.

I know that in two hours, training starts. I overheard Casmir grumbling about the Gamemakers trying out a new "formula", where we'd all get lunch first. He said that this extra time that was given to us was supposed to promote tribute interactions to make the Games more interesting in the long run.

Whatever _that_ means.

Not sure it'll be much help in my case, considering I've been reaped alongside a really spooky and small child that refuses to acknowledge my existence.

I'm still hopeful though, if not for the pessimism-fueled horrifying thoughts that worm themselves to the forefront, once in a while…

Throughout the night, my dumbass brain has been running through the different scenarios where I can inevitably screw up. Now that it's morning, I'm kind of excited to meet the others, if only for the sake of forming an alliance.

My strategy… I've also thought about it quite a bit. Before I left, Will told me that whatever I do, I have to run away when the gong sounds. He told me I wasn't allowed to run into the fray. He also told me that my strength lies in my adaptability and that I need to make allies who are willing to get their hands dirty.

I've been cycling through all of the advice he threw at me in the few minutes we had together.

It's like a mantra in my head now. If there's one advantage to the way my brain whirls around, it's that I'm bloody amazing at remembering things that are important. It's almost like tunnel vision, but for thoughts.

_Be nice to people. Fly under the radar. Make a decent ally or two. Don't go in the Bloodbath. Lay low. Kill, if you have to. _

Will didn't sugarcoat his words and that's what I appreciate most about him.

Now that I'm about to meet the other tributes, I need to focus on the way I present myself.

Hell, it sends shivers down my spine just thinking of myself as a tribute… all these years of watching the Games and now I'm in the place of all those dead kids, fighting for a chance to survive. The thought alone almost shatters my newly-found confidence. I go back to Will's advice, and smile because people are much more likely to trust you if you smile. My dad always said you only have one chance to make a good first impression, and he's right.

I jump out of bed, stretch my limbs, and saunter to the huge closet at the opposite end of the room.

I flick through the different shirts they offer.

There's a lot of comfortable and soft fabrics, which I appreciate. It creeps me out, if only for a second, to think how they've picked out exactly the stuff I would _like_. There were probably hordes of psychologists or kooky mind specialists that have been studying all of us and advising the Capitol designers to give us specific attire choices based on the way we reacted during our reaping, our train rides, while sleeping. The girl from District 12 probably got a bunch of skimpy and inappropriate outfits for her troubles, and that thought somehow makes it supremely more fucked up.

I shake my head, trying to dispel this disconcerting idea, and pick a cotton grey sweater with a small white square with googly eyes, on the left breast pocket.

It's a cute shirt, but it still doesn't sit well with me that I am being dissected to the barest minimum by some higher-ups I can't even see. I guess I need to get used to it.

I put on the shirt, and then a pair of soft and comfortable pants.

In the mirror, I smile at myself, trying to muster my kindest and warmest facial expression. A pair of big dark distraught eyes stare back at me.

"Calm down Jess, you'll be fine," I mutter quietly to myself, since there's no one else to say it.

I lean forward, rest my forehead on the mirror, and close my eyes. If I imagine hard enough, it's like when I did it with Will, when we were both younger. I'd be freaking out about one thing or another and he'd always be there to breathe with me, bring me back to square one and calm me down.

"Be nice to people. Fly under the radar. Make an ally. Lay low," I repeat, looking myself in the eyes.

I shift my face a little, so I look less like a distraught little child and more of the resolute and strong person that I hope I can be.

And then, without looking back, I walk out of my room, shutting the door behind me.

I find Casmir in the lounge, sitting with his head in his hands.

"Hi Casmir," I say brightly, and he turns around. I see that he hasn't slept much, but I don't comment on it.

"Hey Jessamine, I'm so sorry I've… I've been a pretty crappy mentor, so far," he admits, and I wave it off really quickly.

"Don't worry, yesterday was intense," I say hesitantly, "for everyone".

"Yeah you're right. Are you ready for training?" he asks, and waves around his hands apologetically towards the table which has remnants of the food the servants probably brought in earlier.

I understand what he means, and rush to explain myself.

"I … I thought of eating, but I kinda reasoned that hey, we'd be having lunch with all the tributes together, so unless the Careers plan on monopolizing all the resources before the games even start," I get a chuckle out of Casmir, "I should be fine just eating an early lunch before training!"

"That's fair," my mentor answers, smiling, and I can see that I've incrementally brightened up his mood, at least a tiny bit.

"Is everything okay with Tyree?" I ask, genuinely curious. I wonder what his deal is.

"Yeah… no, not really?" Casmir answers, rubbing his jaw. I keep looking at him expectantly, smiling encouragingly. He only hesitates for a second before spilling the beans.

"He's… not really okay. I think he was kidnapped. In either case, I wouldn't recommend you ally with him."

That's…not what I expected, but it'll do.

"Harsh, but noted," I answer lightheartedly, and head towards the door.

Casmir calls after me.

"Jessamine…"

I stop, and wait for him to continue.

"I…I know this has been shitty and none of this is even remotely your fault. I know you're a bright kid, and you can handle your own…"

I nod and smile, inwardly glad that _that's_ the image I'm projecting, and not the crippling all-consuming fear that's actually coursing through my veins.

"But I will step up as your mentor, I promise," Casmir concludes, and I nod again, with even more enthusiasm.

"We'll talk strategy when you come back later this afternoon, alright?" he concludes, getting up, and patting me on the shoulder. His hand is so huge that I kind of sag under it, but jut my chest out a tiny bit to at least seem a little stronger.

His praise made me _feel_ a little stronger, so I really harness that pride that swells inside me and outwardly project the hell out of it.

"See you later, kiddo," Casmir says, as I leave through the door.

"See ya!" I call back, smiling, genuinely this time around.

* * *

_Notes:  
Fun fact: Jessamine was actually the very first tribute I received for these Games! I hope you like this stress-ball from District 11, because I sure love her! Only one district to go until we start the melee-chapters, and when we kick off training in earnest. _

_Just a quick heads up, the month of October is literal hell for me, so I might be a little slow on the updates. I've got a futile Med application (read: me throwing money aggressively at my school and screaming while they take it with no remorse), three projects for my surgical class and a heckin' metric ton of work at my lab. And I was elected for graduate student council, whatever that means. Oh, and obviously, Halloween's coming up, so this gal needs to figure out how to make an unnecessarily complicated costume from scratch. _

_Writing will be done, but perhaps a little slower than usual. _

_Hope everyone is surviving! _

_Peace and love. _


	26. Chapter 23: District 12 Abel Collingwood

**Abel Collingwood **

**District 12 Male, 16  
****1 hour before training**

* * *

It's morning, and any other normal person would have abandoned this frantic search, just based on the statistical improbability of anything of importance being missed.

But I'm not normal, and that's why I'm stuck here.

I've paced around the room at least a dozen times, scrutinizing every irregularity, every crack, every spindle of wood that is out of place.

My irrational brain just keeps on droning on and on around the fact that my brother _must_ have left something here.

That's why I'm here, right?

That's why I fucking volunteered for this, along with a myriad of other insane small things that made my mind bubble over in that one crucial moment of my existence.

My little brother Knox was the sweetest and kindest human being in the entirety of Panem, but that didn't prevent him from being reaped and cut down like an animal, two years ago.

When I came to visit him to say goodbye, he was so resigned to his fate, so wise and pragmatic about it I remember being in awe.

I was never quite like that.

There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but I kept it all buried.

He had held it together, for our parents' sake, even though he was so young and that just made it so much worse, I think. In retrospect, I believe that is one of the reasons we were never really able to heal properly, as a family, and I've come to accept the fact that when I went in, this might as well break both my parents for good.

It's heartbreaking to see a thirteen-year old accept death so easily.

It's almost sacrilegious that I'm here now, having signed my own death contract, when I could have easily done the same two years ago and saved Knox. I should have protected him. He always had so much more potential to contribute to our society than I ever did, but I couldn't bring myself to move when the escort called his name.

I guess that's what I can attribute the tortured gymnastics and paralyzing dread my mind cycles through, at the prospect of the Reaping for the past while.

Call it a delayed reaction, two years too late.

When I visited Knox, it was the second time I went into the Justice building, the first time being exactly three years prior when I said goodbye to Eudora. My best friend hadn't even lasted a day, and her parents divorced within that same year. It wasn't easy for me, but it wasn't nearly as bad as when Knox was taken.

Life took a pretty shitty turn, right about then.

I realize that I have only an hour left before training starts, but I keep pacing around my sleeping quarters. A lot of clothes are discarded on the floor, and the upturned bed-stand lies uselessly near my foot, and I nudge it, as though that's going to help it reveal its secrets to me. As though it still holds some metaphorical piece of Knox inside it, which will help me connect with my brother again, albeit briefly.

More than anything, I wish I could see him again to tell him that I was the one who stole his favorite slingshot and that it wasn't _lost_, as I had led him to believe. It's crazy how interactions boil down to simple things like that.

He had been so upset, so genuinely distraught at the loss of his toy and I never had the courage to own up to the fact that I was just plain jealous and took it. I never owned up to it and that shit fucking _hurts,_ when the person is gone.

I even helped him look for it, and consoled him when he realized it was gone for good.

I was such a coward too, because I never even played with it afterwards. For some reason, that one lie is what pushed me over the edge every time I thought about him in the months after his death. I buried his slingshot far away, in the woods surrounding District 12, never admitting this to anyone, so it's yet another memory that weighs me down.

This whole situation exemplifies the main difference between me and Knox. Despite having only one year of difference, I was always meaner, more aloof, more grounded. A bad liar with bad intentions.

Knox wore his heart on his sleeve, and I don't doubt for a second that he wholeheartedly believed me, despite me being full of shit.

I wasn't even a good liar, and yet he never doubted me.

That's what makes it all the more tragic.

The thought that he died never knowing where his slingshot went haunts me even now, but it's gotten easier with time.

Maybe it got easier because the sadness was overshadowed by the fear that the next name called would be mine.

That's the thing about me…

I am by no means a believer in a higher power or in magic or all that other bullshit the small groups of marginalized people in our country adhere to.

But the fact still stands that I'm _cursed_, somehow, and I've taken down all the people I care about with me.

So, last night, in one final attempt at redemption, or perhaps adrenaline-fuelled madness, I got the idea that maybe Knox left something for me. Maybe he knew about the slingshot and was just indulging in my bullshit, and maybe I could find something, _anything_ really, that could give me an indication that I wasn't as awful as I thought I was.

That he still thought of me as a worthy brother, even in his final days spent in this room.

Maybe that's why the fear and paranoia gripped my mind until I caved in and came here, in order to discover something that led me on the path to recovery and self-care.

So instead of sleeping through the night, I dislodged wood boards, with a hope of seeing a scribbled message assuring me Knox thought of me, when he stayed here before being put into the terrible arena where he met his demise. I looked through all the drawers, imagining that the next one was going to reveal a secret letter Knox stashed away for me to find.

After hours of searching, making up patterns where there were none, I am certain of one thing.

I'm spiralling.

My life literally has no meaning, and it never did, because I'm either going to die here or I'll win and die when I'm eighty, the memory of all the people that died buried with me.

Somehow, I thought that finding some sign of my brother would quell these terrible thoughts inside my head, but the distinct and utter lack of Knox in this room that I _know_ he stayed in makes matters so much worse. It's like they erased him, after he died, and that might just happen to me, as well.

Year after year, I witnessed the reapings take someone I know.

And now, I'm stuck in this continued storyline that doesn't seem _real_ but it is. It's achingly real.

I approach the large cabinet that I inspected at length during the night and punch it, out of anger. My hand throbs, but I punch again, with the other, because it helps release the tension inside my chest.

I look at myself in the large mirror in the room, and it's like I am transcending this experience, because I'm back at the Reaping. Our escort Yuli takes his time stalking towards all the potential male tribute names scattered within the crystalline bowl that costs more to produce than my family's combined earnings for three months. Every year for the past while, it's been like that: I knew it was going to be _me_.

I just knew it, as well as I knew that Knox was going to die from the spear that punctured his left lung and tore his heart to ribbons. And then I _wasn't_ reaped, and another year of gut-twisting paranoia ensued.

This year is different, though. Our escort Yuli reaches into the bowl, his long spiderlike fingers extending at an excruciatingly slow pace. I know it's going to be _my_ name on that white paper he takes forever to grasp between the pads of his fingers. _Come on_. I almost dare him to do it, because this is it. It has to be.

It's like every detail is magnified, my breathing slowing, forming invisible clouds in front of me as while I wait for Yuli to sentence me to die.

He calls out for Axel Lithgow, but that can't be right, because I know that he is calling _me_ up on stage. Because what's the point of fucking living if I'm just going to be reaped the next year, or the one after that?

The boy whose name is so scarily similar to mine has nothing to worry about, because I reach forward, volunteer, and walk up, because that was my destiny all along. My wretched destiny to be driven to near-insanity where I was aware of the fact that every step I took brought me closer to being stuck in this awful room.

I didn't tell anyone I was going to volunteer.

In fact, I didn't ever think I would, until maybe three microseconds before the words escaped my lips. I always just assumed I'd be reaped.

My parents didn't understand what happened. I didn't fully understand it either, and waves of regret came crashing down on me when I wrapped my brain around what I had just done.

Axel was called up, but I took his place… for what? For an internal moment of "I told you so" before I was shipped off to die with the rest of the tributes?

My dad was livid.

My mother was broken.

But they didn't understand what was going on in my brain. They were adults, and all they had to live with was the sadness and grief that have intricately wrapped themselves around our family like some parasitic vine that slowly chokes the life out of you. They were _grieving_, but they did not have to live with the guilt that I bore every day after my brother's death, and the crippling fear that someday, I'd be next.

At least now I _knew_.

I had always known, and I had taken matters into my own hands. An ever-present voice in my head tells me that I brought this all on myself. It's true, and the fact that I couldn't be stronger, mentally, is probably the worst realization of all.

My dad kept asking over and over if it was something he did… I know he saw the look in my eyes as I stepped on stage.

The thing is… it's nothing anyone _did_.

The simple answer is that I just _am_ fucked up like this.

These moments leading up to my volunteering… I was myself, but it was also as though I was stuck in some fractured glass universe where across the different reflections, I was all those kids from District 12 reaped before me.

All these years ago, I was my best friend Eudora, twelve and terrified. I was Knox, just two years past, thirteen and dead three days in. I was the boy whose name I didn't even know, who stood in front of me last reaping and collapsed into me as his name was repeated over the rusty speakers across District 12's Main Square. Sometimes I imagined that just his proximity to my cursed self was enough to get him reaped. I was Axel, whose name was only one letter away from mine, and anyone would tell me that's just a fucking coincidence, but is it _really_?

Maybe it's fatalistic of me, but it was always meant to be me. It wasn't meant to be Knox, but that's how life got me _here_, so I guess it's all part of some weird grander plan, if there even exists such a thing.

Life just kept gnawing and gnawing at the fringes until something snapped.

I realize now it might have been my sanity, because if we analyse all the parameters, I volunteered to die.

And that's a fucking distressing thought, when I confront it head-on.

I pass a hand on my face, wiping away the sweat that sprung up on my forehead.

More likely than not, I'm hyperventilating, because I can practically feel my heart beating out of my chest. The idea of actually facing my actions sounds more daunting than ever, since I need to head out to _train_ with the other tributes, and here's the cherry on top…

I realize it sounds completely crazy, but I am increasingly aware of the fact that the unsettling feeling that never left me for the past four years, has vanished.

Meeting the people I will kill and potentially be killed by stresses me out _less_ than spending another year waiting for the next Reaping to come along, and to me, that speaks volumes about my state of mind when I volunteered.

Imagine that kind of fear gnawing at your brain until you feel like you're losing it?

Our escort didn't even remember who Knox was, or at the very least, he didn't seem to care. I wanted to tell him that it only happened 2 _fucking_ years ago, he _must_ remember because anyone in their right mind would remember a sweet kid like Knox.

But these people are not in their right mind…

Yuli seemed more excited about me volunteering than anything else, blabbering about sponsors and media attention.

What kind of fucked up society do we live in, where people like me are driven to the brink of madness, and celebrated for it?

My eyes flee my face to survey the room once more, for any sign of my dead brother.

It's a futile endeavor, I realize, now that my brain slowed down a little and the huge gaping holes in my logic are exposed. I guess that in some weird romanticized version of these events, I would have thought that he knew I'd be coming in after him, and he'd leave me clues to find.

But as I said, there's nothing new that I haven't looked over a dozen times.

There is no forgiveness to be found, in this room or anywhere else.

It sounds insane even to me, now.

I look back into the mirror and see a boy-turned-man. My eyes are pools of regret, but I square my shoulders and my eyes become flinty.

Whether life fucked me up, or I was screwed from the beginning, I don't know.

All I do know is that the choking feeling of helplessness is gone and it has been replaced with something far more sinister, numbing and resolute. It is liberating, despite the fact that I lost everything I've ever known.

I'm here now, so I might as well make the best of it.

And if making the best of it means surviving this hellhole while my brother failed, well, in a dog-eat-dog world like ours, I'm ready for it.

I know for a fact my inner demons will come back to haunt me, once this is over, regardless of the outcome.

The difference is that now, surrounded by enemies, my mind feels free.

More free than ever since my tears silently flowed down my face, while my mother screamed at our tiny television screen for little Knox to run for it, instead of bravely facing the Career that finished him off.

The seeds of doubt and paranoia might have planted when my best friend Eudora was taken to compete in the Games even before I was eligible, but my brother's death was what enabled these seeds to grow.

And by volunteering, I cut down these insidious thoughts, for better or for worse.

I've been shackled to this fear for so long, that a change of pace seems refreshing, so it'll be what it'll be.

Either way, I am ready and scared of something _real_ this time around, and being scared means I want to survive.

That means I am still human, not an animal plagued by a fear it doesn't understand.

As long as I hold onto this new fear and this will to live, there is still hope out there for me.

* * *

_Notes: It's been so long guys! I've missed writing, so I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Abel from District 12 is one damaged boy, but we still love him. Next up is the last tribute from this line up…the beautiful, the dangerous and the coy Sparkle! Also here's to celebrating reaching 100K! Yay! _

_Please let me know if you're still reading this, because it's getting harder and harder to write for me (the story is planned out and I AM finishing it, but going through the motions of writing 3-4K every week like clockwork just seems more daunting as more things pile up in uni), so any support, whether PM, review or other is appreciated! That includes any advice, criticism or prediction on what is going to happen next. I literally live off reviews, I am a self-professed review addict. Plz indulge me thx baiiii._

_In other news, happy belated Halloween to everyone! #Halloweengate in my part of the world._

_Hope you had a great week, and I'll post the next chapter very soon, in order to compensate for the long wait. _

_Peace and love. _


	27. Chapter 24: District 12 Sparkle Aire

**Sparkle Aire **

**District 12 Female, 18  
****Training begins**

* * *

I wake up to the lovely chirping of birds.

A beautiful ray of sunshine penetrates the room, leaving a golden trail along my bed all the way to the opposite wall. I can almost feel the cozy warmth radiating from that single tendril of light which tints the room in a comfortable golden hue.

I sigh, because it's all so nice, peaceful and it's been a while since I've slept in a big bed like this. The sheets are all fluffy too, complete with intricate pink patterns.

I'm an adult, but I can't help but bring my arms and legs around me as though I'm five years old, feeling just how much space and soft goodness surrounds my body.

It's just the way I've always dreamed of waking up, as I went on about my daily tasks. When I was a little girl, I thought that these kinds of mornings filled with softness, gold and sounds of nature were fit for princesses. I always enjoyed the small things in life, because happiness only comes in rare and unexpected packages, where I am from.

I smile brightly while still keeping my eyes closed, just as the chirping noises fade away. A jading and synthetic voice replaces them. I can't see myself in a mirror, but I imagine I look beautiful, too.

"System updated."

I frown. Now, that's one way to ruin my mood.

"System updated. Training begins at 12:00PM. It is… 11:15AM. Training begins at 12:00-"

"Fucking cunt," I swear at the alarm, and hit it with my fist for emphasis. Sue a girl for wanting a nice _peaceful_ fucking morning, when she's on her way to train for a murder fest she didn't sign up for!

Even though I'm brought back to the thick of the reality I'm about to face, it feels nice waking up in this huge bed alone. Being alone is not a luxury I can often afford and it feels like a blessing.

It's amazing, without some sweaty disgusting asshole constantly rolling over into me.

It's great not to have anyone's abhorrent morning breath clogging my nostrils and rhythmically reaching my shoulder until I am a hair-width away from choking them, the only thing stopping me short of murder being the sweet promise of money.

It's even better not having their obnoxious snoring rupturing my eardrums or their drool accumulating near my cheek because they have me pinned against their disgusting body, as I try to squeeze in a few hours of much-needed sleep before collecting my dues and moving on to my next assignment.

I've always dreamt of a lavish existence like the one I woke up to this morning, even when stuck in dingy basements or dancing with some sweaty client until the early hours of the morning.

Not if it meant dying, of course.

Not if it meant these Games.

But it's not like I have a choice in the matter, and this is as close as I'll get to the riches I've yearned to get back, ever since my rightful life was stolen away from me. So, I figure I'd make the best of it.

I yawn, stretch my limbs and make my way to the bathroom.

I shake my straight hair out, frowning a little at the traces of makeup I spot underneath my eyes when I look into the mirror.

I consider taking a shower, and then, looking at the time, reason that a bath is more appropriate. These Capitol dicks can wait all they want, they can't punish me until the Games start.

Sure, I might be dead within the week, but I clearly see now that my life was never meant to be long or happy, and they already solidly fucked me over by _reaping_ me. They can wait an extra half an hour for me to make my appearance to the stupid pre-training lunch.

And if they can't, I dare them to drag me out of here, dripping wet and naked.

They can suck my asshole.

I turn on the knobs in the golden bathtub, and sit at the border, dipping my toes into the scalding water. This brings back so many old and distant memories that I'm not even sure are real, anymore. When I was three, my mother would sit with me near our similarly beautiful bathtub, surrounded by exotic seashells and pearls on display in our enormous bath house. She would comb my luscious blond hair and then hers, telling me stories of mermaids and mythical water creatures and I distinctly remember my laughter, high-pitched and clear. It's a far cry from the throaty seductive laughter that I've learned gets the men going.

I think those are the only happy memories I have of us. My mother was a stern and authoritative woman, but she loved her stories, and I loved her. My memory of her is cloudy now and I can't seem to remember much, only snippets.

But those snippets of long-gone wholesomeness drive the person I am today.

I realize I'm smiling again, like a complete child.

A splash of lavender-scented bubble bath soap, and I am surrounded by beautiful pink bubbles. I lean back, close my eyes and smile contently once again.

Once the bath threatens to overflow, I drag the television set to the bathroom, and turn on the recording of the tributes.

One last look at the competition before we all meet face to face can't _hurt_, after all.

I jump into the bath, admiring myself all the while in the humongous mirror on the wall. No wonder the crowd went wild for me at the Chariots yesterday.

Water splashes out, bubbles flying, but I couldn't care less, as I settle in the water that envelops me, giving me a giant tender hug.

Once a few minutes pass and I grow accustomed to the pleasant tingling sensation of the bubbles against my skin, I fumble for the TV remote.

When I turn on the sound, speedy updates on the tributes' families hit me like a wave, and I zone out most of them. They're all inconsequential. They don't tell me who these people are and what they're capable of. I mean, if they looked at _my_ background, they wouldn't think I'm very impressive and yet, I am hoping to prove them wrong.

The girl from District 1, Cira, appears on screen and I'm immediately overtaken by undignified and unbridled resentment. I don't even know why, but some primal part of me absolutely revolts, at the sight of her.

I hate her.

I hated her from the moment I laid eyes on her privileged demeanor, her holier-than-thou aura as well as her doe-eyed and innocent look. She is everything I was supposed to be, and yet I grovel in the scummiest district of them all while she is put on a pedestal in District 1. She has everything she could possibly dream of, probably a loving family and an expensive house, and yet she volunteers for this _shit_ when the rest of us get taken away forcefully from the few tiny possessions we fought tooth and nail for. More than anything, I hope she dies.

I hate her so _much_ because in another fairer world, I would have still been living in District 1, she could have taken my place and paid for her stupidity with her life and I would have been none-the-wiser to it.

As a lot of people learn pretty fast, I hate a lot of things, and the things I hate, I hate _deeply_. I also despise District 12, down to my very core.

I hate its disgusting dirty streets, I hate the stupid down-on-their-luck people, I hate the stench of death, and I hate the horrible black dust that gets everywhere even when you try your best to wash it out. I hate it even more because I was _sent_ there, labelled a rebel traitor and orphaned.

I lost my parents, my older brother and my friends. I lost my dignity and I had to grovel and survive like some slimy disgusting worm, as I fell from grace and landed in the most desolate of places. I lost the home I had known in District 1 since my birth, and all that was left of the _real_ me when I was dropped off at the dirty station in District 12 was my name.

All I harbored was the intense hatred of the system that did this to me. And, by proxy, I hate Cira who has everything that I don't.

I stare accusingly at the girl as her picture zooms out, with a video of her reaping replaying to the detailed commentary of the show host. As though staring at her might set her stupid hair on fire.

A part of me wants to run to this girl, ask her whether she has seen my home. She probably knows the house, since we lived in one of the largest citizen-owned buildings in the District. I want to ask her a million questions, so I can confirm which memories I have are real, and which are romanticized versions of the things I left behind. I want to demand answers from her, and maybe forge some sort of camaraderie, since we are built from the same cloth after all. In another world, we might have become coworkers or even friends.

An overwhelming part of me wants to slit her throat, for embodying everything I could have been. I want to knock out her perfect teeth, and hit her until her ribs collapse.

I flick off the television, and see my own angry face in the dark screen, staring back at me. I frown harder, tapping the remote on my temple, and thinking of the different ways I can maim Cira as pink bubbles float in the air around me, giving the room an ethereal look.

I can be a savage bitch with a vendetta, but that's what got me through life so far. That's the only way a freelancer like me can get ahead, in the slums of District 12. I'm a jack of all trades, of sorts.

I had to be, in order to survive.

No one likes upper districts, especially in District 12, and looking the way I do was both a blessing and a curse. In my field of work, I could pass for _exotic_, but I was also alienated for it and no one would ever let me forget it. In retrospect, I couldn't really have become anything else than your average street walker. I ain't ashamed of it, and I'm good at what I do. And I mean, versatility is key on that job, and I learned that very early-on.

People think that I'm just a pretty blond puppet that can dance and smile and twirl her hips, and I say that's where they stand corrected.

For example, let's take your average Joe or Frank from the Mayor's house. They get a decent salary, they work their asses off, and they're lonely. They're into some really weird shit privately, and I'm there to take the edge off in an otherwise _unlivable_ district. I ain't saying I'm a saint, but I am convinced my line of work is singlehandedly what prevents our society from succumbing to chaos and anarchy.

It wasn't peachy, but I toughed up quick, and got to pick up a few useful skills along the way. So, if someone is, _without naming any names_, turned on by a slim gal fixing their broken-down truck in the rich part of the district while the wife is out busting her ass in some shady community school on the other side of town, I'm your girl.

It's surprising too, how weirdly specific some people get.

I've fixed heaters, car engines, the occasional dishwasher machine… the works. What baffled me in the beginning is the fact that these lonely assholes would pay the exorbitant prices for an escort in high heels when they could get the same menial job done by a professional mechanic or some shit.

I guess a hairy forlorn middle-aged man doesn't strike the same image, but still.

I smirk, picturing Cira from District 1 trying to survive a day in my shoes. The pretty girl would probably keel over, in less than an hour. She reeks of innocence and misplaced naiveté that gets you flushed out pretty quick, where I'm from. The fact still stands that I've been up in this business for a long time and in terms of resilience alone, I am far superior to Cira.

I have no doubt about it. That thought makes me feel a little less aggravated.

I've been in the industry for 4 years myself, but some of the other girls have been going at it since the war.

The Cherries... that's what we call ourselves. We are all freelancers, but we need to stick together. It's not like we're unionized or some shit. The pimps and drug dealers of District 12 all want a piece of us because we fuck around with their monopoly on the business. Sometimes quite literally.

And it ain't pretty sometimes.

When it gets really bad, it's _bad_. Lola, one of our youngest girls who only joined last year, got her face all cut up. She came back bleeding, missing a few teeth and her left ear and she ain't on the job anymore. We get cases like that every once and a while, but that's the risk associated with the job.

It's dangerous, of course, but I've always thought it was worth it. And in my mind, if you're tough enough to get over the psychological shit, the physical doesn't phase you.

Although still unreasonably annoyed by Cira's face, I try to relax and soak some more, but as the water turns lukewarm, I force my eyes open. I know I'm just delaying the inevitable.

When I look over at the time, it's almost noon, so I slowly exit the bathtub and let the water drain as I dry my hair to get ready. I'm getting ready and for _what_?

To please the Gamemakers?

To appeal to their inflated egos in order to survive?

I mean, how different would it be from my daily existence anyways?

Suddenly, as though possessed, I want to scream at them to make them understand that I am meant for _more_ in this world. I've done all this work, when I was fit for a much better life, but I never complained. I don't deserve to be cut down when I just started taking control of my life. I feel so helpless as I aggressively comb through my wet hair, because no matter how much I can pretend that I'm _rebelling_ against their scheduled stupid lunch, I am still dancing to their tune by showing up in the first place.

Anger is a much better feeling. I know how to deal with it.

I don't want to feel sad right now, because I don't want anyone to see me like that. I don't need my enemies seeing me weak.

And if there's one thing that I like to take comfort in when I'm feeling sad, it's ambient noise to flush that shit of my brain.

The room is too quiet, too suffocating, so I look for the music device I found yesterday. My wet hair leaves small drips on the plush cream-colored carpet.

"It is 12:00. Training starts at 12:00," the alarm croaks out, clearly damaged by the rough manhandling it survived earlier this morning. The electrical tin drops to a low growl and indistinct beeps follow the unhelpful announcement.

I roll my eyes at the stupid object.

"Yeah yeah, I fucking know," I answer begrudgingly, as the alarm sputters and seemingly dies.

I struggle a little bit with the music box, but it has one button, and after a few forceful clicks, it comes to life.

"What would you like to listen to?" the box asks, and I smile involuntarily. Now that's one thing I never got to play around with, even back in District 1.

When I don't reply, it starts an auto-selected playlist, and after a few song changes, I find what I'm looking for.

In District 12, we either get boring sad fiddle folk songs or low-quality electronic bullshit that plays in the bars I dance in, whenever I am allowed inside without the exorbitant fee. The tempo is harsh and hollow… it's like an aphrodisiac for the people who go soliciting my services. I don't want _any_ of that shit right now, because that just risks bringing back the sadness all over again.

I need something better, more empowering, and I think I've got it.

The beautiful melody that comes out of the box makes me smile immediately.

A synthetic piano-sounding instrument picks up and I instinctively sway to the rhythm. The sound is so distinct that I'd recognize it anywhere. A beat starts, so clear and smooth, and I start dancing around the room, putting the volume on high just as the guitar strings out the first few iconic notes.

"I want to break free, I want to break free," Freddy Mercury starts, just as I lip-sync as I reach the bathroom to get my makeup.

The cabinet is full of the best brands of makeup I could only dream of in District 12. I guess I was cursed with knowing how good it could be, and that's part of the anger that plagued me for so long. But now, I don't focus on that at all. I focus on the rhythm and the sounds from centuries past that have transcended war and devastation.

"I've fallen in love… I've fallen in love for the first time," he keeps singing, as I start by carefully applying my deep red lipstick.

"This time I know it's for real, I've fallen in love

God knows, God knows I've fallen in love

It's strange but it's true, yeahhh  
I can't get over the way you love me like you do,"

I smack my full lips together, and smile, making sure I don't have any residue on my teeth. Satisfied, I even wink at myself and dance away, just as the guitar acoustic begins.

"Oh, how I want to be free, baby," I sing, and I almost air-guitar in the air, when I remember that cameras might be watching me right now. I decide I don't care, and self-indulge, dancing around the room and using my hairbrush as a microphone.

As the instrumental part of the song kicks in, I get my heels, put them on slowly, genuinely grinning. As the melody continues, I find myself reminiscing the times when my father would dance with me to this song. I'd always end up tripping over his feet, so he'd hoist me up in his arms and we'd dance like that. This was always my favorite part.

"But life still goes on  
I can't get used to living without, living without  
Living without you… by my side  
I don't want to live alone, hey!  
God knows, got to make it on my own"

"So, baby can't you see," Freddy and I duet, as I put on my mascara and some bold eyeliner to finish up the look I'm going for.

Just as the song ends, I turn dramatically to the mirror, and I see one hot babe staring back at me.

"Now I'm ready," I say to no one in particular.

I throw my damp hair across my shoulder, and search for something to wear. I instantly regret not putting on my shirt before putting so much effort into my makeup, so I struggle for a few minutes to put on a tight black tank top over my face.

I look back into the mirror, and satisfied at the sight of my makeup still looking flawless, I put on black training pants. They're tight, and it takes me another while to get them over my high heels, but I'm already late, so a few more minutes can't hurt.

When I'm finally ready, I survey the room, humming the happy melody.

As I leave, I spot Yuli passed out on the couch. I've never met such a neglectful person in my entire life, but I don't particularly care. I've been having the greatest time making him feel uncomfortable, and I'm hoping I can keep up this charade until I leave.

If I'm going to die, I am determined to piss off as many of these people off as possible. And if I come back… well, again, we'll burn that bridge when we get there.

I slam the door extra hard and hear a string of profanities, which, I can only _imagine_, are the result of a hardcore hangover, unexpected loud noises from slamming doors and the realization that I hadn't gone to training on time as he previously expected.

He'll definitely get written up on that account. I smirk at the thought.

It's all muscle memory as I walk to the elevator, press the button and wait for the lift to come pick me up. I cross my arms against my chest, and cock my hip to the side, tapping my left heel against my right.

My suspicions that everyone is already at the Training Center are confirmed, when the elevator opens with incredible speed.

That's exactly how I wanted things to go.

As I am brought to the Training floor, the doors open with a distinct _ding_.

Less than ten meters away from me, I see the faces of a little over two dozen people, all waiting expectantly for _me_. A few turn their heads at me, annoyed, while others look nothing short of terrified, in their own little bubble of misery.

I clear my throat to get everyone's attention, and a few more people turn my way. I spot the trainer and a few avoxes, who are nervously balancing trays, unsure of what to do with them.

The clock reads exactly 12:30PM.

I put my hands on my hips, and smile deviously at them. It's show time.

"Hi lovelies, sorry I'm late, I simply couldn't _wait_ to get to meet you all," I drawl sarcastically, and twirl my hair around my finger instinctively, just as everyone turns their head in my direction.

Cira's jaw seems to hit the floor.

I'm pretty sure I've made quite the impression.

So, without further ado, I let the training officially begin.

* * *

_Notes: And so, our roster of tributes is complete! I hope you enjoyed Sparkle representing District 12, she was so so so much fun to write! On another note, with a little over 100k, we are completely done with the introductions. This means we are diving head-first into the meat of the story. _

_Now that all the characters have had a chance to tell their stories, I would love to hear your thoughts on what alliances you think will be springing up in the upcoming chapters. Who do you think will make it in the Bloodbath? I absolutely love predictions, as crazy and as improbable as they are! And who knows… the Games are not yet written, so you just might give me a great idea I'd love to explore. Or, alternatively, you'll give me something to regret, as I do the complete opposite. _

_Next up, training begins, for realzies!_

_Peace and love. _


	28. Chapter 25: Training Day 1 Part 1

**Chapter 28: Lunch Before Training  
**

* * *

**Daisy Jackson  
****District 6 Female, 15**

* * *

All I know is the fierce unyielding hunger that is gnawing at my heart, and the intense fear. I didn't know what to expect, but this _isn't_ it.

So, when we are pushed to the elevator, shut in it as progressively more and more people pile in, I almost freak out. But I don't want to scream again. I understand vaguely that these are the people I'm competing against, at least until someone puts me out of my misery.

We are ushered out, but the great aggregation of people only increases, as more and more groups arrive. Many arrive in pairs.

The weirdest part is that every minute that passes as I kind of just step from one foot to the other, my hands folded tightly across my midsection… it feels like an eternity just stretching and stretching until I feel like the rest of my existence will be spent in this soup of tightly packed people waiting for … something? Someone?

I instinctively start scratching at my arms, getting antsy.

I don't like waiting in one place for too long.

Leaves you exposed, and all that.

I just want to shrink into a particularly appealing corner of the room, and shake my head at the prospect.

I need to stay put because they might punish me for it.

They made it clear they would handle me like a rabid dog if I was to behave like one.

Instead of fidgeting too much, I try to get into my own bubble of peace, humming something under my breath and shutting my eyes closed to drown the nauseating feelings of anxiety and withdrawal. I'm vaguely aware of the fact that some of the other kids make a wider circle around me, more so than even around the big scary ones, but that's okay.

I don't really want to talk to them anyways.

I hear some commotion and open my eyes.

A tall and imposing woman stands in front of the entire assembled crowd, crossing her arms. She has intense features which are highlighted by bold makeup. She looks significantly older than any of us here, but somewhere at the back of my brain, I realize she's at most eighteen. Rules and all.

"…couldn't _wait_ to get to meet you all," she concludes. I don't catch the beginning of what she said, but it doesn't seem to be particularly pleasant, because a few of the stronger-looking people around me scoff. The others just lower their eyes, and I follow suit.

At first glance, I am intimidated by her. I don't know her name, but I know her kind. While I was one of the regulars loitering the streets, girls like her always meant trouble.

They always had their red lips, their heels and their loud obnoxious voices that grated my ears whenever I had to seek shelter in order to keep warm. They'd have their stupid fur coats, but they were no better than the rest of us. They were just as dirty and disgusting, if only on the inside.

"Tributes. Enough commotion, listen up!"

My head snaps up towards the source of the authoritarian-sounding voice: a tiny woman with almond-shaped eyes and short hair that is cropped right down to her skull. It reminds me of the orphan kids in District 6, with their hollow eyes and protruding bones. They always shave their heads to prevent lice transmission within the community homes. As though that is really the worst thing they have to deal with. But instead of an air of pathetic helplessness, the woman stands proud and straight.

The small woman claps her hands, making the last of our batch look towards her.

"Welcome to the Training Center. Here, you will acquire the necessary skills to fight, defend and survive the Games that are ahead of you."

I see a few of the smaller kids swallow nervously, fiddling with their thumbs. They're scared of dying, I can tell. I'm not, but I'm scared of worse things. The older ones just adopt a defensive stance, or smile maliciously.

"But first, we will all proceed to a complimentary lunch, made possible through the tireless efforts of our benevolent President. This would not be possible, either, without the involvement of our Gamemaker team, and the cooks and staff that worked tirelessly to deliver this meal," the woman concludes tersely, and we are ushered to four great tables.

Some people are already mingling. A trio of boys sticks out like a sore thumb, and I stare at them hollowly. They get a lot of awkward glances, but they don't seem to be minding the attention in the slightest. The tributes from District 1 and 2 take up an entire table, and no one bats an eye. They don't talk, not yet, but I can already see the girl from District 2 mentally preparing herself to make the first leap.

I understand now, how these Games work. Those are the hunters, and everyone is afraid of them. That's why no one sits with them. I navigate my way to the table further away from them, seeing it already filled sparsely with kids. Tributes, I have to remind myself. We're all tributes in the Games.

I plop down, and stare at the empty plate in front of me. I'm so hungry, but not for this. I wish someone would understand. I still have to at least appear somewhat normal, so I put a few peas and carrots on the plate. Even for a second, I imagine how the people in charge might reward me, if they see me putting in the effort.

_BANG! _

I jump up, my eyes wildly trying to refocus on whatever made that noise right near my ear.

"Excuse me, I want to sit here," a high-pitched voice notifies me, as I scramble to get up and gather my sweater off the seat.

I look up, and a tall girl with long beautiful black hair is staring disapprovingly at me. Why are they all so tall?

"S..sorry," I stammer, at a loss of words, and try to skitter away as quickly as possible. I don't want any drama right now. I just want to be left alone, because the pain is coming back. The girl raises her eyebrows, and blocks my way.

"Oh, it's _fine_. More than fine actually. You're one of the other volunteers," she remarks, but there's no appraisal in her voice. There's only scorn and bitterness, and I don't even know who she is and why I offended her.

"Yeah, I'll l-leave now, if that's okay," I manage, but she interrupts me, tapping her perfectly manicured fingers on the table. She stoops down, her face practically a few inches away from mine. I can smell her peppermint fresh breath and it makes me recoil. There's something so off-putting and commandeering about the way she stands there.

"_No_, I'd like you to stay. I want to know why you volunteered," she spits, and I can hear the anger in her tone. "There's too many girl volunteers this year. I was supposed to be special."

"So, you're gonna antagonize her, because you're not _special_? Grow the fuck up."

I turn around, and see the girl in full makeup. The one who was late, my brain supplies helpfully. She's got her arms crossed, and she's smirking at the other girl.

"Orla, from District 4," the black-haired girl offers confidently, but the other girl interrupts her.

"I don't give a fuck who you are, can't you see she's tired and upset and she wants to be left alone?"

"I don't care," Orla interjects petulantly, taking a step closer and casually flicking a pea off my plate, for effect. I don't really mind it, but the other girl is getting more annoyed by the second.

"Oh I know you don't. And I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I shatter your pretty little face, right before the interviews, hm?"

Orla seems to be taken aback. "You're not allowed to do that!"

"Yeah, I'm not. I wasn't allowed to arrive late to this useless lunch either, and here we fucking are, forty minutes later. Do you think I give a shit?"

I try to shrink in on myself, caught between these two forces of nature.

Orla doesn't seem scared of this girl, but she backs off, nonetheless. She flips her off for good measure and stalks away, bearing the air of someone incredibly offended. I sigh in relief.

"I'd suggest you get a new plate," makeup girl says, and I take a fork and play around with the remaining peas. Even though I don't invite her, she sits next to me. She's clearly confrontational, but she defended me from Orla, so that's _nice_, I guess. I don't immediately leave, even though the proximity makes me a little more aware of where I am and of the shivers and tremors that run through my body periodically.

"Why?" I finally ask her. I don't even bother thanking her. She laughs, loud and clear, and from the corner of my eye, I see Orla giving us the evil eye.

"Because you don't know what that bitch has touched, with her tentacles," she clarifies, and I stare at her dumbly.

"Because she's from District 4? Sea-district and all?" she adds, and looks more exasperated by the second. "You really don't seem all there. You alright?"

"Yeah, just tired," I respond mechanically, surprised at the fact that I'm even talking to this absolute stranger.

"No offense, you look more than tired. Your eyelids look like golfballs and your face is all blotchy."

"Thanks?" I answer, more confused by the second. I play around with the three remaining peas on my plate, avoiding eye contact and fully prepared to be antagonised once again.

"It's not a compliment hun," the girl says, and sighs, but then perks up and introduces herself. "I'm Sparkle, from District … 12." I'm glad she told me her name because I couldn't pay attention before, and had no idea who she was.

"Oh that's a nice name, I'm Daisy." I hug my waist harder, and can see Sparkle's mouth form a thin line. She disapproves of this.

"Hey, don't worry too much. I come from a fucked up place too. Eat a bit, it'll make you feel better."

I obey, just for the sake of ending this conversation that is making me uncomfortable. But I see in her hardened eyes that deep down she understands what I'm going through. It's as though she's seen it a billion times before. And maybe she pities me, but as I actually shove a mouthful of weird but delicious beans, I look at her and realize that a bit of company makes the pain dull, if only a tiny bit. The tremors don't go away, but she doesn't seem weirded out by them, so I don't comment on it.

We sit in silence, and I'm grateful that for once, someone stood up for me.

* * *

**Geoff Windsor  
****District 9 Male, 16**

* * *

We all sit together, me, Jean and Logan. From what I can tell, we're the only ones to form that immediate bond. I'm pretty sure everyone is suspicious of that, but they're too afraid to ask.

What can I say, I like to keep people guessing.

Jean is clearly still nursing a hangover, but Logan is smiling and I'm glad we got a head-start on the others. From the looks of it, our district partners all prefer to eat in silence, in separate parts of the lunch hall. I extended an invitation to Mona who politely refused, and I am tempted to ask the other boys whether they offered the same option to their district partners, as well.

"Quiet somber lunch, eh?" I ask, swallowing a delicious clam-chowder soaked piece of bread. I never even dreamed of eating this stuff, let alone gorging myself with it. Logan nods enthusiastically, while Jean smiles tiredly, wincing at the pain between his eyes.

"Guess we found the alcoholic," I tease him, nudging him and he snickers quietly.

"Guess so," Logan chips in, and I turn around to him.

"I was talking about _you_, buddy. You're holding your liquor way better than you have any right to," I tease him, as he mocks offense. The three of us laugh conspiratorially, and get weird looks from the others.

"Don't you think everyone is suspicious of why we're talking, while they're all sulking?" Jean whispers, and I shake my head. He sounds so unsure and achingly young. It's scary to think we're the same age and I'm past the point of caring about what others think of me, when Jean's main concern seems to be exactly that.

"It doesn't matter. They won't know, and it's better to keep this interesting. And who knows, maybe it'll finally feel like this ain't our collective funeral."

The two boys frown, and I realize my morbid humor might have taken this conversation in the wrong direction. I change subjects before they can dwell on that distressing thought for too long.

"What do you guys want to do once lunch ends?"

Logan shrugs, and Jean looks perplexed.

"I think we should go for the books first, and survey what kind of materials are at our disposal," Jean says after thinking it over, and I nod.

"It's smart, because we might get an indication of what the arena is like."

I look around, and realize at least half a dozen tributes are listening in on our conversation. In the back, two girls are sitting together, and discussing something quietly before focusing on their meals, paying us no attention. The girl who tried causing trouble looks like she's ready to set them both on fire with her mind.

But at the table we are sitting at, I can see a few pairs of eyes on us. Their expression ranging from curious to annoyed.

They want to know where we are going to get shipped off to, as desperately as we do. They probably think that since we're already sitting together, we know something they don't.

"I think we should also take advantage of our individual strengths and work on those. Maybe not today, but tomorrow we can separate and each build on what we already have. I know we didn't talk about this yet, but what are you guys good at?"

I look at them both encouragingly, because I want them to open up. As much fun as we had last night, it's _hard_. It's normal to not trust people you met less than twenty-four hours ago.

Logan only thinks about it for a few seconds before answering.

"I'm uh… good with axes?"

He raises his hands defensively before either me or Jean can interject.

"I know, I know it's stereotypical, but I had to do quite a bit of work, so I can swing a weapon around, no problem. I didn't have to do it, for the past few years, but I'm sure I can get a hang of it quickly, if I practice in training."

That's good. We can get wood for our fires, and… other stuff. We'll see when we get there, but having someone competent with an axe is definitely an asset.

"I can also climb trees, and I'm a fairly decent runner, and I've got good endurance," Logan adds.

"Couldn't ever tell from the way your lungs wheezed yesterday," I blurt out smiling, and bite into an apple, for maximal effect. I try to keep my tone low, so that people don't overhear.

"Hey man, you were literally poking me in the ribs like a _maniac_, what was I supposed to do?" Logan retorts, and this feels so natural that I forget we're talking about skills that might potentially save our lives. It's so easy to forget.

"What about you Jean?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean _you don't know_? You must be good at something?" I continue.

"Not really, I was never really all that smart or fast. Our district isn't the greatest for that. All I love is fashion but I doubt that'll be much use in there," Jean replies sadly, and I instinctively put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry dude, we'll find something for you. And worse comes to worst, we'll pray that the arena is some fucked up clothes-making factory, and we can make good use of your sowing skills."

Jean blushes, and piles up another mountain of mashed potatoes, busying himself with creating a twirl on his plate.

"Hey you guys, we'll be fine, we just need to stick together, and stay the hell away from the big guys," I say, and both of my friends nod.

It's weird, calling them _friends_, but that's kind of my whole thing.

I get involved in things too quickly, but I like where this is going so I'm not questioning anything too much. And both Logan and Jean seem to be enjoying it.

We all come from different backgrounds, but in the direst of circumstances, we found each other and that's what counts, right?

Now, I just need to make sure we navigate these Games to the best of our capabilities.

In a strange way, even though we're all approximately the same age, I feel some weird responsibility towards them both. They look capable and competent, but they lack the drive I have, and I think that's why I'm the unspoken de-facto leader of our trio.

I don't mind it though.

I don't let any kind of doubt obscure my positive outlook, because I can't _afford_ to do that.

I just hope that this works out for us.

"What arena you guys think it will be?" Jean asks quietly, because a few whispers are heard here and there across the different tables.

I quickly look for Mona, who is still sitting alone. Her eyes are puffy and downcast, but she is aggressively poking at something on her plate as though it personally offended her, and I leave it at that.

You can't help everyone.

"I don't know… I mean, do you guys remember what arenas were there, recently?"

"Last year was pretty focused on wildlife and stuff, so I guess they might go for something a bit more urban, this time around?" Logan ventures, unsure.

"I think it might be some sort of weird road. I don't know, I've had a dream that we're all stuck on this giant unending cement path, with trees on either side," I say, and Jean visibly shudders.

"I really hope it's not that," he mumbles, and I have to agree with him. After sneaking back into my room, half-drunk half-tired off my ass, I collapsed on the bed. And despite me keeping a cheerful front, dark thoughts came, unwanted, as soon as I closed my eyes.

I don't want to expose the guys to that.

"Hey, with a cool and extravagant lot like us, I'm sure they cooked up something at least mildly more interesting," I say instead, and the tension disappears.

I just hope we are as 'extravagant' as we think we are, and that the Gamemakers' definition of 'interesting' is aligned with our trio's strengths.

I just hope I'm right.

* * *

**Addie Klossner  
****District 10 Female, 15**

* * *

I'm sitting all alone, at a safe distance from a very-relaxed-looking Valentino, minding my own business. As far as I'm concerned, the fewer interactions we have where I can make a fool out of myself, the better.

As much as the talk with Glenn helped me straighten out my thoughts, I'm still not ready to dive into chatting and fraternizing with my district partner. There _are_ limits.

Some tributes are getting accustomed to the hall and exploring. However, the majority of people, like me, just chose a spot and rooted themselves there, protecting their territory.

The pair from Five sat down closest to the Careers, and the girl is quietly whispering to the guy who is listening and eating. From what I can tell, he really is blind, and she's describing our collective behaviors to him.

It comes off pretty pathetic, but I'm sure I don't look too hot myself. The guy, at the very least, seems to be taking the whole thing in stride. The strong-looking District 7 girl is also at that table, eyeing the Careers with such intensity that even the blind guy can probably tell what she's envisioning.

A few other people keep migrating around, looking at the different foods and selecting the ones they like. Some, like the boy from District 3, decided to sit along the wall, preferring _that_ to being within reaching distance to anyone else.

Awkward spurts of chatter erupt and then abruptly stop. It almost sounds like whining of the cutting machinery within our butcher shop that I used to operate with my mother. It all feels so long ago.

A dark-haired girl with tanned skin approaches me, tray in hand. Her entire plate is covered in food, and from the way her arm muscles strain under its weight, it looks like she's determined to eat herself to death before the Games even begin.

I don't find the strength in me to smile, so I just wait for her to initiate. I don't want to be that awkward person who tries too hard, even though this girl strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn't mind.

"Hi, I'm Jessamine," the girl introduces herself, and I vaguely remember her from the chariots, now. It's all so new, even though it feels like a million things have happened. I have to remind myself that I've only been out of District 10 for a little over twelve hours, so it's a lot to take in. And it's not like I did all that much effort to socialize and learn about these people, since I was so consumed by the implications of being reaped and the whole Valentino-drama-thing.

Not that not socializing isn't normal, under these circumstances. The real weirdos are the ones talking to the people that might kill them, in the long run.

I don't remember her costume or what she did, but I recall her face somewhat. It looks a lot more natural and youthful, without the intense makeup they caked on us. I figure she thinks the same of me.

She nods enthusiastically, as though encouraging me to tell her my name. When I don't, she doesn't seem to take any offense.

"You're Aderyn, right? From District 10? I really loved your dress yesterday, you pulled it off like a legend," she gushes, and I can't help but smile a little bit. Is it a tiny bit disconcerting that she knows my name? Yes. But, I mean, it's not like it _wasn't_ televised for the entire country to memorize.

So, it's not _that_ weird. Not in the context of absolute fucked-upness we are both stuck in. This is _totally_ normal, I try to convince myself, even as I try to control my facial features.

Instead of staring at her as though she grew a second head, which is what I would normally do if a total stranger came up to me knowing my name, I do the one sensible thing I can think of.

"Yep, that's me. I liked your costume too," I lie, having no recollection of what she wore.

Having elicited a response out of me, Jessamine takes that as a green light to keep up the conversation. She doesn't seem to have picked up on the fact that I have no idea what I'm saying. I take a quick look at Valentino, who is happily munching on his salad. He seems to be focused on someone at the other table, so I look back at Jessamine.

"Figuring as you're looking like the normal one of the bunch, mind if I join you?" Jessamine says brightly.

I motion to the empty space next to me, by way of offering to sit near me.

"So, what's your story?" I ask, feeling awkward for not prompting the direction of the conversation thus far. Chatter is picking up in the previously near-silent training lunch hall.

"Eh, ain't really got one. From District 11. Got really screwed over with this Games thing. And I'm _starving_," she adds while chuckling and showing me her huge plate full of colorful food.

"So, while I eat, you tell me what's up with you," she says, shoving a leaf of lettuce in her mouth. I must be frowning, because she apologizes immediately.

"Sorry, I meant, like, if you want to talk, you _can_ talk. Or we can just sit in quiet, that's fine too. Just didn't want to look like a _total_ loner," she adds, rolling her eyes dramatically, but with that twinkle in her eye that lets me know she's on my side.

Jessamine looks happier than she has any right to be, but right underneath her confident demeanor, I can see the cracks. The girl is practically vibrating with nervous energy, but she's interacting with me, so I don't comment on it.

There's no harm in idle talk, once in a while.

She's a great active listener too, contrarily to literally anyone I've ever known back in District 10. She met me two minutes ago, and yet I see in her eyes that she hears what I'm saying, she is truly processing what I'm trying to explain to her, even though it's all banalities and food-talk for now.

All the while, she devours her entire plate, and serves herself seconds.

I smirk a little at that, and she explains herself.

"I was way too stressed out and upset to eat anything this morning," she says, waving apologetically around her food.

"Ah no problem, everyone is still eating anyways," I answer softly, looking around quickly for what feels like the billionth time. For the first time since I got brought here, my knee-jerk reaction isn't to make a biting remark or be a spiteful dick to the person in front of me.

That's progress, I _guess_?

I find Jessamine looking at me intently, while chewing with such gusto that I almost feel like laughing.

She picks up on my amusement immediately, and smiles.

"Totally not forcing anything on you, but if you're down, I think I'll be hitting the survival stations first," Jessamine says, and I nod thoughtfully.

I don't tell her this, but I appreciate immensely that she's not pressuring me into anything. I'll definitely think about it, but I don't want to jump into anything too quickly.

"Yeah, I'll see. Thanks though," I answer her after a few moments of deliberation on what to say. I've never been the most skilled at meeting new people, but Jessamine doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she gives me a thumbs up.

"Sounds like a plan… and while you're at it, think about introducing me to your district partner, _damn_," she whispers while winking, and I stifle what is most certainly an undignified huff.

My eyes instinctively flicker up to Valentino, who is now staring directly at us.

_Great_.

My face does its thing, and Jessamine giggles quietly. I just let the comment slide.

"Don't take me too seriously, Aderyn, I'm just really freaked out and I'm one of those nervous people who just starts spouting bullshit," she says after a bit of time.

It's funny. I … I feel incrementally better, having someone to talk to that is my age.

Her offer becomes all the more tempting when I look back at Valentino and as though rehearsed, he echoes Jessamine's thumbs up. He approves in his own weird way, so why the hell not?

* * *

**Seeva Andino  
****District 2 Female, 18  
**

* * *

More than anything right now, I wish that Imari was here. I would have loved to show my best friend the sheer variety of food that's in front of me right now! I didn't think of myself as being capable 'giddiness', and yet here we are. I struggle to not grin from ear to ear at the sight of the various dishes in front of me. Best of all, there's no limit here, no one can stop me, not the nutritionists at the Center, not _anyone_. It's not like I won't expend that caloric intake during training in a few hours.

Never had I ever dreamed of being able to have access to something like this, and that's what I decide to focus on, instead of terrified glances that are thrown in my direction.

Imari and I… we both starved for a good part of our childhood during the war, and even though we clawed our way out through Career training, there's still something that stays with you from that. I think all of the kids here have some of that, to varying degrees. We're all war-children here. That's partly why I consider every single one of them dangerous. When war becomes you, you become war, they repeated to us at the Center. Not that it made any sense to me back then.

Sujax cracked a few genuine smiles during the train ride at the food amounts I consumed. Athena didn't look impressed, but she rarely looks impressed by anything and there's nothing I can do about the fact that she can't see past my ancestry.

If I win the Games, there will be plenty of time to change that.

It's not like I'm a sloppy eater, unlike some of the lower district kids, who seem to be scarfing down the food at a higher rate than even yours truly over here. If that doesn't serve as a remind to us higher districts that we were fortunate even in our misfortune, I don't know what will.

My eyes linger on the small girl from District 9. Mona. Blond with a pretty braid, and bony elbows sticking out of her blue T-shirt. More likely than not, one of the four people at this table will be the person to deliver the final blow, ending her life.

But again, even though at least three of us will die, we're still more fortunate because we _chose_ this, in a way. We got training when little girls like Mona can do nothing but be led to their deaths like sheep for slaughter. It's a shame, for them.

I finish my meal, because I've got bigger concerns ahead of me. I'm mentally preparing to make conversation with the other three Careers, and it's harder than it looks. Neither of them look particularly ready to talk.

Luther is _fine_, somewhat, but the other two, I'm not sure about.

They don't seem particularly friendly with each other. They aren't openly hostile either, so I count my blessings there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Morgana from District 7. She seems… chill, for a lack of a better word, giving off better vibes than three quarters of the people sitting at the table with me. Which isn't a high number to start with, considering everyone is avoiding the shit out of us. It seems that she's at war with herself, debating on how to approach us. I can almost see the little gears turning in her head.

I've got the same thoughts going through my own brain at neck-breaking speed. We're anxious about different things, granted, but the ever-lasting anxiety about _screwing up_, starting off on the wrong foot… I'd wage my entire trainee stipend that we're cycling through familiar territory.

I almost wish I could come up to her first, and see how things go with the others.

It seemed so easy during the Chariots.

But I _can't_ do that. That'll destroy my whole 'loyal to District 2 and the Capitol' image I've fought so hard to uphold. I have to let Morgana come to us and act as the ever-benevolent and accepting leader. Already, Athena seems ready to explode at Luther's antics.

I don't want her on my case, with her other problems brewing at the back of her mind. That can only spell disaster for me, and I'm already on fragile terms with her.

So instead, internally praying Morgana will finally get her shit in order to come talk to us, I get up and walk towards Ambrox Linden from District 1.

"Hi, I'm Seeva from District 2," I announce to the whole table, smiling warming and opening my arms. I need this to go as smoothly as possible. It's all on me, because none of them tried anything.

I am relieved to see Ambrox respond immediately.

"Hey, I'm Ambrox, this is Cira. We're from District 1," he answers pleasantly, but scoffs internally at the end. I almost miss it, but I don't.

I'm not offended though, I _get it. _These introductions are formalities because we all know each others' names. The pair from District 1 probably dissected us just as much as we did them, yesterday.

On television, they always made the Career alliance to be something that formed naturally, obviously. Not like _this_, with an awkward conversation to confirm that everyone's on board. They don't show you everything on the broadcast, after all. Or maybe we're just fucking debilitatingly awkward, this year. Just my luck.

But I'm determined not to let that phase me.

"So, I think a good strategy would be to stick together for training. Is everyone good with that?" I jump straight to the point, not taking our potential allies as the kind of people that want their time wasted. I assume that unless they openly protest, we're in this together, until the final 8.

"I agree," Ambrox says, and makes space for me and Luther. "You guys can join us for the remainder of the lunch, and we can get to know each other better. Sorry, we didn't think about that earlier."

His apology sounds anything but sincere. We both know they were sizing us up, but it seems that at the very least, we have passed whatever internal test Ambrox subjected us to.

I enthusiastically bring all my stuff nearer, sitting close to Ambrox as Luther slides up to Cira. Her smile is watery, and a little nervous.

"How are you guys liking your stay so far?" I dive into pleasantries, smiling genuinely at Cira. She seems a little lost, and doesn't look like she touched any of the stuff on her plate. She's small, by Career standards, and her features are soft and fragile-looking. I wonder what her deal is, but I guess I'll know soon enough.

We keep chatting, Ambrox and I leading the conversation at first. But Cira and Luther eventually join in, and it's actually _fun_. It feels like the way it's supposed to.

I sit back a little bit, letting the conversation go its course, no longer needed as the provider of the main thread of topics.

I glance quickly at Morgana, and find her staring directly at me. I smile imperceptibly and she responds similarly, adding a lazy little wave, punctuating the fact that she's still getting ready to approach us.

"…a lot of strong competitors this year," Luther remarks, adding on to whatever was said before and rubbing his hands together in anticipation of what, according to him, is probably going to be a great time.

"A lot of volunteers too. I was actually thinking, if you guys are open to the idea, that if we're approached by a strong tribute, we can let them in. I don't know, I think expanding the Career alliance makes us seem a little less like assholes, and I've got a hunch a few people here want to get in on the advantages of being a Career," I add, getting nervous again.

I'm suggesting something novel, a new approach to the Games, and while it's been done before, it's not the standard, strictly speaking.

"Yeah, I've noticed the chick from Seven staring at us," Luther answers, but there's no maliciousness in it. He's just stating a fact, and I'm grateful my idea isn't met with automatic scorn and disapproval.

"I'm open to new recruits, as long as they're… capable," Ambrox shrugs and I mentally high-five myself. He was the one I was most worried about, but if he's on board, I'm sure I can sell them on the idea of bringing in strong tributes like Morgana. Maybe even Valentino from Ten.

The truth is that I'm a little apprehensive to face this year's contestants with only 3 people at my side. Strength comes in numbers, especially in an unpredictable year like this.

Sujax seemed to agree, so at the very least, I know I'm not completely coming out of left field.

We keep chatting, and I hear a deliberate rustle behind my back. I turn around, and see a few heads bob down into their plates, avoiding my gaze. That's nothing new.

But of course, things couldn't be that simple.

Orla from District 4, the one that was stirring up shit on the other side of the room about half an hour ago, approaches our group from behind. She discards her leftovers without even a glance spared for the wasted food, and beelines towards us as I openly stare at her.

I've heard from Sujax that District 4's mentor asked him to extend an invitation for her female volunteer, in the previous months. But this girl… she doesn't look like the volunteer that was promised. And as far as Sujax knows, Mags went radio-silent about any alliance-making, ever since the Reaping. From the way Orla volunteered, I am certain she's one entitled delusional spoiled brat, if I've ever seen one.

The four of us, we're sitting closer, laughing louder, and I'm hoping _that_ will dissuade her from whatever she's about to do. She literally smells of trouble, so as soon as she opens her mouth, I steel myself for the shitstorm that is about to hit.

Ambrox interrupts whatever she was going to say.

"Can we help you?" he asks slowly, his mouth forming the thinnest line I've ever seen.

Orla stares and we all stare back.

Cira chuckles nervously, clearly affected by the thick tension that is almost palpable, in the air around us. Orla waits a couple of seconds, before starting.

"Well, now that I won't be interrupted…Hi!"

The quiet that ensues in the lunch hall is so absolute that one could hear a pin drop. Even the younger boys at the back stop their chattering.

Orla doesn't seem to notice the shift, and continues on.

"Instead of beating around the bush, I'm going to dive right in. I'm Orla, and I want to join the alliance."

"Hi, nice to meet you Orla, unfortunately applications for Careers are closed, at the moment. We will let you know, if ever we need an airhead to pad our team," Luther deadpans, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

Orla glares at Luther, and even I'm taken aback by the absolute lack of fear in that girl's face. Only annoyance and indignation taint her features an ugly pink color.

"No one asked you, Two, I'm talking to the one in charge."

Ambrox shakes his head.

"Sorry, you clearly didn't understand. She," Orla points at me with her index finger, almost stabbing me in the forehead when I don't even move an inch, "said you'll be taking on other district tributes."

"She did," Ambrox concedes calmly, his voice dripping of honey and poison. Orla doesn't even bat an eye.

"I volunteered, and my mentor asked _yours_ for an alliance, even before I was on board. I want in," Orla enunciates to the four of us, as though we're stupid.

She looks me directly in the eyes, ignoring every single other person in the alliance. I can only gawk at the audacity.

"So, I'm joining?"

Fuck me sideways, it couldn't just be _simple_, for once?

* * *

_Notes: This is it, after all these introductions, the children are finally interacting! The next couple of chapters will be focused on training, so a lot of exciting potential there. Please let me know what you guys think! Is there any particular character you really want to see, during training? Any special skills you want showcased? _

_Have a great week, and I'll try to stay on a relatively stable schedule. However, your homegirl is immersed full-time in graduate studies, so these 7k chapters might come out a little slower. Or maybe not. Reviews give me inspiration._

_Peace and love. _


	29. Chapter 26: Training Day 1 Part 2

**Training Day 1: Afternoon**

* * *

**Scout Trinian  
****District 4 Male, 13**

* * *

They keep feeding us, here in the Capitol, and I can't help but remember a story my mom used to tell me when I was a small kid. About an evil witch feeding a girl and her brother with delicious sweets until she could stuff them into an oven and eat them up.

They fought back and put her in the oven, though. They won by outsmarting the witch, and I wish I had my mom here to tell me how to do that, with all the weird-looking adults that flutter around us. No matter how much Mags tried to console me, I feel trapped in this place, with no way out.

I thought I liked the Capitol before.

I thought all they did was bring good to the world and that the rebels were wrong to try and fight them. That's what they showed on television, at the very least, and my mom never really contradicted it. I don't feel so sure about it now, with the stress of this entire situation threatening to overpower me.

The woman with the short hair and the strict appearance comes to the front and I see everyone's heads snap as she raises her voice.

"Tributes, lunch has come to an end, so I would ask for you to vacate the tables, and head to the training hall," she says, while folding her arms across her chest, her arm muscles almost rippling. Instinctively, I hug myself, trying to disappear before her piercing gaze.

"Before we start, I have a few simple rules that will ensure that the upcoming few days will roll as smoothly as possible."

"Rule number one, don't harm any of the other tributes. Save all of that for the Games. Tribute fighting is strictly prohibited throughout the course of your Capitol stay, and appropriate punishment will be enforced if anyone breaks this rule," she smirks, and I struggle to understand how anyone could find this funny. She's definitely one of the bad ones, like the _witch_ in the story. I'm sure of it.

"Rule number two, respect training hours. That means no one is allowed to sneak in here to get extra training in before the Games start," the woman says, and I see one of the scary boys at the front table sag in his seat a little bit. The tall curly-haired girl imperceptibly rolls her eyes at this display of rebellion.

"Rule number three…" she pauses, and I can feel everyone stop breathing. "Have fun," she concludes slyly and licks her teeth for emphasis.

I still feel so lost, but I see everyone stand up, as some tired-looking men and women swiftly come in to clean up the mess we left. Tables start being folded in front of me, and tributes start trickling out of the room into the training hall as I just stare.

This commotion stresses me out even more, and I instinctively bring up my arms to where Trinity would be nestled whenever I would feel out of place or worried about one thing or another. Instead, I hug thin air… another reminder of how alone I am.

I file out after the blond girl that looks around my age.

Mags told me there's three days of this training ordeal, and as I enter the huge room with the cold metal walls and sharp-looking metal weapons hanging from racks, my mouth falls open. The four tributes from Districts 1 and 2 immediately head for the swords.

Another wave of nausea threatens to overtake me, as the other tributes slowly but surely leave some of us stragglers behind, and reluctantly pick an area to focus on.

I don't think I can handle this for three days.

Orla is right behind the Careers, even though I can tell the irritation that comes off in waves from the four trained tributes. Mags doesn't seem to particularly like Orla either. Every time I tried to talk to her, she always kept insulting me or ignoring me, so I guess the dislike is warranted.

I don't know why Orla thinks she has the right to do that…

I may be younger, and I have no one here to stand up for me, to that kind of abuse. And I hate to admit how much her utter disregard for my wellbeing has affected me over the past day. I cried a lot because of it, but I couldn't tell anyone because I don't want people thinking I'm weak. Not even Mags.

Well, if she wants to go suck up to those people who came here on _purpose_, I'm not going to be the one to stop her. I guess she came here on purpose too, and I don't know how she's going to get herself out of her own mess.

But if it's not my district partner, I still need to get to know someone… anyone. My mom told me to make friends, and I repeat that like a mantra in my head as I survey all the other kids. I know for a fact that I'm not going the same route as Orla. No one, except for the trio of boys that are currently busy at the large table with books, seems to be too approachable.

The girl, the little blond one who somehow appears even smaller than I do, is sitting all alone at the knot-tying area, and instinctively my feet start hitting the ground as I move in her direction.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" I ask her hesitantly, my voice hoarse from disuse. Mags talked to me a lot, last night, but I was so scared that I could only squeeze out a couple of words. And I was so worried about being late today, that I fled our floor right after breakfast, before she could ask me any overly personal questions.

"No, I don't," the girl sighs sadly, and beckons me a little bit.

"How old are you?" I prompt her, as she doesn't attempt to start any conversation beyond a few worried glances my way.

"Just turned thirteen last week, how about you?" she asks back, focusing her eyes on the knot.

I grab a piece of string and whistle at the pamphlet in front of her.

"Hah! Same here. Thirteen! I'm thirteen, I mean," I answer, blushing when the words come tumbling out. This feels so awkward, but thankfully, the girl doesn't spare me a glance as she finishes her knot.

"I'm sorry, I'm usually a lot better at this. I'm just upset by this whole thing, you know," she waves around, and I nod thoughtfully.

"Kinda sucks," I agree unenthusiastically, and she scoffs.

"Yeah, _kinda_. Only, you know, a matter of life and death here," she rolls her eyes and I feel like I've offended her, so I shrink back, picking up a particularly large instructional pamphlet and burying my nose in it. When that doesn't work, I kind-of feel like fleeing.

"I'll go now," I inform her, and her eyes flash towards me like lightning.

"No, you … I didn't _mean_ that in a mean way, I don't want you to go. I just didn't really have anyone to talk to about this properly, and I'm taking out my anger for no reason. I'm doing better than yesterday, but I'm still pissed off," she admits, with a little sad laugh.

I cross my legs, a little more at ease. I realize I don't even know her name yet. A shout from the fighting area permeates the air and momentarily takes me out of the moment.

"I'm Mona, from District 9," she introduces herself, as though reading my mind and bringing me back to the conversation. Her little arm extends towards me and I shake it, feeling extremely goofy.

"I'm Scout," I answer back meekly.

"I'm just so mad, you know. At least you ended up with a good mentor… I've got … Momo. He's sweet, but he's not really all that great to give advice," she keeps talking as we start doing knots together. I see her hands momentarily leave the little strings and nervously run across her intricate braid. I want to tell her it looks nice, but I'm worried she'll think I'm weirder than I already feel.

"Yeah, Mags is pretty great," I say instead, feeling out the words in my mouth. Mona lets my useless statement slide as though she hasn't even heard, her mind clearly focused on something else entirely.

"You _know_, totally no pressure, but if you want, we can go and try mess with those guys out there."

She points at the trio of boys flipping through the books intently while discussing something of utmost importance, from the way they keep on nodding at each other.

Her voice takes on a conspiratorial edge and she shuffles closer to whisper into my ear. I can feel some of the little stray blond hairs tickle my face.

"I've been thinking about it," she giggles, and stops momentarily, "what if we tried to, you know, steal one of those books at the station, before they really get a good sense of what's out there?"

When I don't react, she keeps elaborating her plan.

"I mean, I don't want to run that risk if they were the _Careers_, but they seem decently harmless. And my district partner is pretty clueless, despite him trying to appear as though he knows everything. I don't think he'd do anything to hurt me, either way."

I frown, but let her finish.

"It's not just to mess with them," Mona backtracks, trying to make the plan appealing to me. "I also think that if we stole it, you know, if we got away with taking one of the important books, we'd have info no one else does. We'd keep it to ourselves."

"We'd get caught though, there's cameras everywhere," I interject, trying to come up with a way to dissuade Mona from getting into trouble. "They'd ask us to put it back."

Mona puffs her cheeks.

"You'd _think,_ right? But trust me, there's some sketchy stuff going on right under the Gamemakers' noses, people sneaking around, and they're doing nothing about it," she retorts, sparing a quick but accusatory glance at Geoff that I can't help but fixate on.

She doesn't elaborate, but I have a feeling this isn't the bottom of what she knows. I don't want to push her to explain though. I'm not sure I want to get involved in whatever is happening.

Taking action, helping Mona… it would not only secure me a friend amongst these strangers, but it would also potentially yield information that might give me an advantage over everyone here.

I know deep down in my heart that Alex would immediately agree to this.

They live for this kind of shenanigans, and my heart aches even considering how Mona might have a friend just like _them_ back home, game to participate in whatever little idea she concocts in her head.

But that's not me.

"I'm sorry, Mona, you seem really cool, but I think I'll focus on training," I say, casting my eyes down in embarrassment, because I know I'm being a coward.

I don't _want_ to see her crestfallen expression, but my eyes can't help but flicker up and catch it all the same.

"Oh, that's okay I guess," she says, a little lost.

"You're doing great progress with the knots though," I say, kind-of helplessly.

She simply nods, looking back at the boys and then back at me, as I stand up, feeling worse and worse by the minute.

I wave at her, trying to convey that even though I don't want to participate in whatever she's planning to do, I don't want her to have any ill feelings towards me.

I felt like we were getting along just fine… I just _really_ don't want to get into any trouble. My mom said making friends is important, but laying low and not attracting the attention of the really scary tributes is just as crucial, if I want to last. And pretty much everyone is bigger and scarier than I am.

Mona waves back, and actually musters up a smile, without any reproach. I don't know if it's genuine, but it looks like it is.

"It's okay Scout, I'll see you around then."

At the very least, it doesn't look like I blew my chance to ally with her, if ever I finally decide on something. Somehow, that makes me feel loads better.

I don't know if I want to ally with Mona yet, but now there's at least one person here that doesn't hate me and want to automatically kill me, once the Games start. It might be the smallest tribute here, apart from me, but that's a start.

I definitely can work my way upwards, from here.

* * *

**Morgana Foster  
****District 7 Female, 18**

* * *

I walk into the middle of a complete and utter shitshow.

It's not like I ever really had a choice. I made up my mind a long time ago, and changing paths now sounds exactly like suicide. And let's be real, I was never the kind of person to change my mind easily. As my feet hit the ground, I relish in the idea that all these years have led up to this exact moment.

But the fact still stands that it feels like a missed opportunity, when I walk up confidently to the Careers and Orla _fucking_ Ferraris is already standing in their midst.

There she is right now, apparently annoying the shit out of an already-fuming Ambrox, who is translating his fury by aggressively stroking an overly large sword he is trying to test out.

Normally I'd comment on men and their sensitive egos that are so easily shattered by an imposing female… but Orla is really something _else_. I wouldn't even call her imposing. She just lacks any sort of common sense, coupled with the unwavering knowledge that she is the fucking queen in this _bitch_.

I saw what she did during lunchtime, and needless to say, I was less than impressed.

However, I have to _admit_, there was some good that came from it. As I was chewing on my third goddamn double-stuffed sandwich, about to grind my teeth to dust out of sheer stress and frustration I thought of something that really put this entire situation into perspective.

I'd be a hell-of a better option than Orla, so why the fuck _wouldn't_ they accept me?

Like, what kind of competition is there even, between a bimbo talking out of her ass, who can barely even throw a punch let alone dissect someone with a sword, if her volunteering is anything to go by and me, fucking _Morgana _Foster, who has kicked more ass than a Peacekeeper from District 11?

Maybe the pep-talk was a bit much, but it's doing miracles for my self-esteem and that's all I need right now.

And as I'm walking up to people I desperately need to secure an alliance with, I know exactly what I must do.

There's no talking my way into this.

I need to show them what I can do, and that I'm worth it.

I swiftly grab a spear off the rack, and in one single fluid motion, as I've practiced countless times in Sunhdit's basement, I hit the bullseye situated twenty feet away.

The _twang_ of the spear silences Ambrox from District 1, who was in the middle of saying some joke that Cira already started politely laughing at.

Holy fuck, I did it. All four Careers stare at my god-fucking-lucky shot I didn't think I was going to pull off from the first try, and I do my best to not look too impressed with myself. Orla is busy cleaning her cuticles to really notice anything going on around her.

"Are you still extending invitations for an alliance?" I ask playfully, almost adding a wink before stopping myself, because that would be fucking overkill. I'm practically vibrating from the inside with nervous energy, but I contain it all by crossing my arms across my chest.

Ambrox imperceptibly narrows his eyes, as Seeva gives me the biggest shit-eating grin in the whole universe.

"What have you got to show for yourself… Seven, is it?" Ambrox asks. His accent reeks of District 1, and I wonder if he's playing it up for the rest of us. It could come off as quite intimidating.

I've practiced my answer for this question though, so it rolls off the tongue really easily.

"I'm Morgana from District 7. I've trained since I was six, I know swords, hatchets, knives. I've got a preference for short-range combat, but if y'all need a spear-thrower, I'm your girl too," I respond, jerking my head towards the spear lodged into the target for emphasis.

I could also mention my plants-knowledge, and my limited but essential medical expertise, but I reason that if they actually want me on their side, those revelations can come later.

"She's got the build of a fighter," Seeva remarks coolly, but I can see from the twinkle in her eye that she's been sold on the idea of me joining the alliance a long time ago.

Surprisingly, Ambrox, who I thought was going to require the most convincing, acquiesces almost instantly.

"You seem like someone serious," he momentarily glares at Orla, who, from what I gathered, will not take No for an answer. "You can train with us, and if you really are good enough once the scores come out, welcome to the team," he adds, giving me two thumbs up that I reciprocate out of excitement.

"Sounds like a plan!" I reply almost too quickly. No one seems to mind the eagerness and excitement that betrays me, and just like that, I am no longer on the outside looking in. It's happening!

As I'm internally still reeling from the success of not turning every trained killer in this alliance against me, Seeva claps me on the back.

"Glad _someone_ finally decided to talk to us," she remarks smiling, as the others head closer to the fighting mats. "We don't bite you know, you could have avoided having to show off with that spear throw over there, which was hella impressive, by the way, but still. I woulda vouched for you."

"Yeah I was kinda shitting bricks," I admit to her, cursing myself immediately for opening up. But Seeva has been nothing but nice to me regardless of what District I'm from, and trust is something that's built. So, I reason that a tiny bit of vulnerability won't hurt with her.

"You shouldn't have," she assures me, while glancing conspiratorially in Orla's direction as the dark-haired girl struggles to lift a particularly heavy-looking claymore sword.

"Honestly, I should have. If it wasn't for her, I'm sure District 1 over there woulda given me a harder time," I respond. "Compared to her, I look as competent as you guys though, so it's chill."

"Are you not, though? Unless you rep-ed yourself too hard there, you have as much training as we do," Seeva muses, passing a short shiny sword from hand to hand, testing its balance. My knee-jerk reaction is to immediately take offense, get my guard up, but I take a deep breath instead. I just have to prove myself, and I know she's still sizing me up. _She's still one of them_, I have to remind myself. She might seem nice, but we're not automatically friends, even if we did bond quickly. I'm going to be one of _them_ soon, too.

"I did, I was just… I don't know, you guys seemed really exclusive –" I start, but am interrupted by a clattering noise and a frustrated shout. In a way, I'm grateful because I hadn't planned the conversation that far ahead.

Ambrox is towering over Orla as she stares directly into his face, anger barely concealed on her features. A sword lies discarded by their side.

"I'm done with her shit," Ambrox says calmly, but his features are anything but composed.

"You can't tell me what to do, I'm allowed to be here as much as you," Orla retorts, as though she's a fucking five-year old child. The petulance makes my lips curl back in disapproval.

Normally I'd say something.

I hate brats like her, but I can't step out of line because I'm not part of this alliance yet. She's also the reason why I'm not the automatic outsider here, and I silently thank this self-absorbed and abhorrently entitled human being that is currently staring down a Career. That takes some serious stupidity or courage, depending on who you ask.

"First off, _yeah_ he is, and second, why the fuck are you causing more trouble now? We're literally here to train, we're allowing you to tag along, - " Luther raises his voice, coming to Ambrox's defense. Cira stands with her arms hugging her waist, obviously wishing to be anywhere but involved in this fight.

"You're not allowing me anything, I'm doing what I WANT-"

"You're not in this alliance!" Ambrox shouts, losing his cool.

"Guys, let's all calm down," Seeva starts, but is interrupted by Orla sticking her head underneath her arm and screaming.

"YES, I AM, and _YOU_ can't stop me."

"Honestly, fuck this," Ambrox storms off, and I'm stuck deciding to stay with Seeva with an obviously distraught and pissed-off Orla, or following Luther who starts after Ambrox.

As I said before, I landed in the middle of a fucking shitshow.

I sigh and head towards Ambrox, as Seeva shakes her head at Orla.

"Um yeah, no, I'm not in unless this dick-wad is out," I overhear Ambrox murmur, as he pinches the bridge of his nose as though this entire situation is giving him a massive headache.

It probably is, considering I couldn't stop hearing Orla droning on and on for the entire time I was working up the courage to come talk to the Careers. It was exhausting to me, and I can't imagine it was particularly pleasant for Ambrox either.

Is he being melodramatic? Yeah.

Is it kind-of warranted? I have to hand it to him, he lasted longer than I would have, so I definitely have some sympathy for the guy.

"Hey man," I start, genuinely sympathetic, but Ambrox cuts me off too.

"You better not start being that fucking annoying or I swear to god," he seethes at me, and I put my hands up in defense.

"I'm sorry, I know she _sucks_, I am just here to help. I genuinely want to help," I reiterate, for emphasis, and Ambrox takes a deep breath.

"How about we just train here, and let Seeva deal with her for now. You can always kick off _anyone_ you want the alliance, but it's only Day 1… so if you want to hear out my opinion, I'd say you'd save yourself a lot of trouble by dealing with her later. Reap the benefits of training now, you know, kick off dumbasses later," I say, trying to simultaneously appeal to his logical side, as well as the part of him that clearly yearns to be the leader of this Career pack. I want to make it clear right off the bat that he's in charge, as far as I'm concerned.

It might sound manipulative, and it is, but putting myself in contrast with Orla is the best thing I've got going for me right now, and I'd be a fucking loser if I didn't take advantage of that.

I don't know how, but Ambrox actually deflates a little, and Luther gives him a pat on the back that would appear condescending if it came from anyone but Luther.

"You're right, fuck, you've been here for 3 fucking catastrophic minutes, but you're right," Ambrox says, passing a hand down his face, and laughing a little bit. He shakes his head for emphasis, and his features take on a handsome expression. It's almost scary, if I hadn't studied the way they do this, albeit in a slightly more ratchet way.

It goes unspoken between us that we both don't trust each other, that while he fully has the capacity to kick Orla off the Career pack, he has the same power to that with _me_. At this point, I'm just praying that whatever annoying shit Orla does overshadows any potential missteps I will make. Maybe horrible conceited brats are actually a blessing in disguise, for some of us.

"Let's go fight, eh? We can challenge the trainers. That's what I was excited to try out," Luther ventures, and I nod enthusiastically, riding this god-knows-what-the-fuck-it-is wave of acceptance from the two Career boys in front of me.

Playing mom and dealing with who's right and who's wrong… _that_ was never my forte.

Just now, I did alright, though, and that's all that counts. Seeva seems to be doing great fulfilling that role, as I spare a glance her way. Both Cira and Orla seem to be engrossed in some conversation with her, and I see her nod at me imperceptibly. _Situation diffused_, I mouth back at her, and she smiles.

"Yeah let's go fight. Maybe then the _asshole_ will actually have some sense knocked into her head that she should stay away from us," Ambrox says, picking up a blunt weapon.

While I'm not the best with my words, what I _am_ good at, it's fighting. And as Ambrox calls down three trainers to attack the three of us simultaneously, a grin appears on my face.

I twirl out of the way of an impending attack and cross swords with one of the large trainers, who grunts at the force of our weapons striking together.

I hear the steps of the other trainers, and the beautiful silence accompanying the movement of my two allies.

_Well… not allies yet, _one part of my brain argues as I duck, and swing with force at another trainer's head. I feel impact and jump back quickly as a human body hits the floor with a thud.

Both Ambrox and Luther give me a mirroring look of appraisal as they push back the two other trainers.

_Not allies yet, but it's coming, and I'll make it happen. _

This, I enjoy.

* * *

**Roizer Loudon  
****District 6 Male, 14**

* * *

It's been exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes, and I've been walking aimlessly around the training complex, trying to make up my mind on what I should settle on.

It really doesn't help that the metallic and cold walls of the complex remind me so awfully of the bunker I was stuck in for the first few years of my life.

It's debilitatingly demoralizing, and I just wish I could be back in my room, drawing the tributes instead of facing them head on. I've always been more comfortable living in my own head than whatever this is supposed to be.

But that's not how life goes, around here.

As I'm walking around, I see the other tributes interacting, and I mentally try to create a storyboard I can add to my sketchbook. I've got it in my hand right now, hidden under my comfy sweater, and I'm tempted to take it out right now and start drawing right away. It's become a coping mechanism of sorts, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that it's the only thing that kept me from losing it last night.

But for the time being, I convince myself to continue surveying the tributes.

Some stick together, like the pair from Five.

The only reason why I remember them so well is because of how odd and distinct they look.

The girl seems decidedly unhappy and a little bit twitchy, but doesn't leave her partner's side. They keep whispering and mostly keep to themselves even as the boy from Twelve approaches their station, minding his own business. They both have strange eyes, so their entire page that I sketched out yesterday is filled with cosmic and otherworldly doodles.

I steer clear of the Careers, inching my way closer to the mats on the far end of the training hall. No one so much as looks my way.

After the exploding but brief argument between the One boy and the Four girl, the Careers separated into two groups, and a majority of the noise is coming from the ones fighting with the trainers. The Seven girl joined them previously, and she was fighting with the ferocity and grace of a trained tribute, which scares me even more.

How many of my competitors know exactly what they're doing?

To my great relief, most tributes hardly make a sound, keeping their head low and tinkering with some thing or another. On one hand, it's a blessing since I don't feel like jumping out of my own skin at every noise. On the other hand, my constant fidgeting and subdued squeaking is bound to attract unwanted attention, and it's stressing me out.

I hate being like this, so easily scared, so easily prompted to having these noise outbursts.

Suddenly a weird and crushing emotion that I haven't felt in years floods my entire body. Honestly, I feel like an outsider. Everyone is preoccupied with something, their hands or minds busy and I'm just some kind of ghost, surveying them, taking in every detail of their movements and interactions without ever interfering.

The Games haven't even started, and I feel half-dead already.

I hear a clatter, and everyone turns their head in the direction of the Eight girl who is staring at the hatchet she just dropped in frustration.

"Again," she practically spits in the direction of the trainer and wipes off the sweat off her brow.

She doesn't seem to care in the slightest that people like me are staring and renews her efforts with an admirable intensity. I wish I had the courage to get into training like she does, but I'm just too self-conscious.

I just wish they provided some sort of closed setting for us to train in, so I could be closed off from the others. From their potential judgement if I screwed up.

It's so weird, coming from me, since I've always been afraid of enclosed spaces ever since my childhood. But in this unfamiliar place, I just want to curl in a ball with my sketchbook, and disappear from view.

The district Three girl is practicing a parkour route that has been outlined for her on a huge screen in front of the runway. She bobs and weaves, dancing out of the way of obstacles coming her way with amazing grace, and summersaults at the very end.

She was one of the kids I didn't draw.

I think she intimidated me a little too much, from the way she volunteered, and then from the way she held herself at the Chariots. But as she does a little victory dance after finishing the parkour with a near-perfect score, I see the human side of her.

My fingers itch to take out my sketchbook and draw all that frizzy crazy hair and make her into something larger than life… immortalize this moment when she's smiling all to herself.

But I can't, because this isn't what normal people do.

So, I just let me free hand twitch restlessly at my side.

I turn to leave, and trip over someone's foot, going splattering on the floor, my sketchbook flying out of my sweater onto the cold mats ahead of me.

"So-sorry," I stammer, frantically trying to gather my sketchbook while pushing myself back.

The other kid reels back, and I see that his face has a mortified expression plastered on it.

"No, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that, I just didn't see you and you turned around so fast," he blurts out, extending a hand to help me up. That's perhaps the kindest gesture anyone has extended to me during my entire stay at the Capitol.

So much so that the jarring difference from the usual scorn and lack of concern actually makes me want to cry.

I stutter again, lifting myself up without his help. "No no, it's quite… my fault."

I whistle, to release the tension building up in my head from the stress of it all, and look back at the kid. If I remember correctly, this is the small boy from District 4.

The kid doesn't respond anything, going from one foot to the other, and stroking his left arm with his right. He looks so odd, right then and there, that I have to cock my head a little to the side to inspect him a bit better.

He looks more stressed out than I feel.

"Hey, it's … alright," I say slowly, trying to enunciate properly to not scare the kid away. He seems really nice. Around my age, too.

I realize I'm really tired, seeing as I haven't slept all night, since when I try to remember the small replayed version of his reaping, his name and age are a big blur.

I squint, trying to remember.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," the boy says, handing me my sketchbook. He looks really distraught, so I try to comfort him instead.

"You didn't, thanks for this, really," I wave sketchbook at him.

"What's your name," the boy asks, peering curiously at the sketchbook. I almost hide it from view before deciding against it.

"I'm Roizer from District 6, how about you?"

"I'm Scout."

Oh yes. He's thirteen, from District 4. I remember feeling awful for him, because he was reaped alongside a volunteer girl who didn't seem too nice. He's kind of in the same situation as I am, clearly, since he's wandering around the training facility with no clear objective in mind.

"Nice to meet you Scout!" I answer and smile because it's nice to finally have some contact with a real human being.

Not Daisy, not our escort, and not the people who can't speak but instead keep staring at me with their piercing eyes as though I am some sort of freak. Scout seems to be a genuinely nice kid my age, and I cling to that desperately.

"What's in your book, there?" Scout asks, and I frown.

"It's personal stuff," I answer, my fingers snapping together and twitching restlessly at my side.

"What kind? I mean, is it like a diary or something?" Scout ventures, and I laugh a little.

"No, it's …uh," I struggle to explain. But then, I go out on a limb and flip the book open since an image is worth a thousand words.

Scout's eyes widen, and he honest-to-god starts grinning as I flip through the pages.

"That's wicked!" he exclaims as I show him Roy and the Moon City I was able to complete yesterday during my feverishly inspired night.

"That's what I like to do, when I'm … stressed, you know," I elaborate.

"Hey, keep on being stressed dude, you're really great!" he exclaims, and then stumbles on his words apologizing. "I didn't mean it that way, I just meant you've got really cool ideas in there!"

I laugh quietly. "Don't worry, I don't know if you're saying that just to be nice or not, but thanks."

Scout shakes his head awkwardly, laughing along with me. The truth is I genuinely don't know if he likes the drawings, or if he's simply relieved, he has someone to talk to. But either way, I can't complain since finding a companion in him, even if it's just for today, has singlehandedly uplifted my spirits.

We don't spend much time talking, since we are both introverts and we're both dealing with issues on our own. But even sitting in silence with another friendly entity near me does wonders to my mindset.

Even as the sun sets and the clock rings, indicating the end of training, we sit together, me sketching and him reading through a guidebook on orienteering, whatever that means.

Suddenly, the speaker comes to life, and both of our heads quickly snap to the origin of the sound.

"Tributes, your first day of training is officially over. Please put down your tools, weapons or any material that belongs in this room, and head to your sleeping quarters," a voice resonates across the speakers in the training facility. I associate the voice to the commandeering woman that has been with us since early lunch, but there is no sign of her right now.

I guess she was too lazy to come see us in person.

I venture a look at Scout, and see him staring intently at the little girl from Nine. She sees him staring, and shakes her head, grinning a little bit.

I think her name is Mona but with the worsening headache that threatens to split my head open, I don't really remember.

"I expect to see you all on time early in the morning tomorrow. Your second day of training starts at 9AM sharp and I wouldn't waste my time, if I were you," she adds ominously, and the speaker goes silent.

"Long day huh," Scout asks as we both head to the exit together.

"Yeah," I sigh, rubbing at my head. "I think I just need some sleep."

"You do that. I'll see you tomorrow though, eh?" Scout asks hopefully, his eyes gleaming from fatigue. He doesn't look nearly as terrified and sad as when I fell over his legs.

I whistle, and nod. "Absolutely. Count me in."

To come to think of it, minus the headache, I don't think I look as terrified and sad either.

As we part ways and press the "6" button to get to my floor on the elevator, I am relieved that Scout doesn't think I'm weird. So many people have spent a couple of hours with me, only to realize how utterly unimpressive or strange my tics can get.

But Scout didn't seem to mind.

In fact, it looked like he enjoyed my company as much as I did his. I smile as I enter the common area of District 6's floor. Even Melchior can't dampen my mood.

It's nice to not feel so much like a ghost, anymore.

* * *

**Cira Dupont  
****District 1 Female, 18**

* * *

As I plop onto the couch in the lounge, I let out a sigh of relief.

It feels like only a month ago, my life was set on a track I knew it would never deviate from. Imogen was set to go to the Games, I was set to wait for her as she came back. That feels like a distant echo of a memory, now.

For the past month, it's like my brain has been wrapped up in some sort of impenetrable fog. I've been training harder than ever, but I still feel out of place, because I don't _want_ to be here.

It's my duty though, and I couldn't refuse.

Not after what I did.

It still doesn't feel right after so many people clawed and fought their way to be here, and all I want to do is get back to Cotty, give him kisses on his little nose.

This whole situation… it still strikes me as incredibly sad.

At this point, I don't even have the energy to rage in righteous anger. The pain of the knowledge that my life has been turned upside down and that I am living what my best friend dreamed of while she rots in an unmarked grave of trainee casualties… it gets unbearable some days. I don't understand why someone would be as cruel as to write my story this way, but that's the way things go.

I lived and I breathed and I loved.

Now all that is left is the sweat and tears put into the last month's training, and the hatred that never lets go of my heart, not even for a second.

I see the way Ambrox looks at me, as though I'm a bomb that is ready to explode. In a way, I'm grateful because he seems to _care_, at least for the time being. But it's not like he won't kill me, if given the chance.

That is what's horrifying.

No matter how much I trained, I can't reconcile this with the fact that I never wanted anything to do with these Games.

And here, in this plush room, I feel this disparity between what I wanted so desperately for myself and what ended up happening. It's as suffocating as the dust that came up from the mats Jasmyn ground my face into as we fought. When she was operating on a week-timeline to bring out the monster out of me, when for other trainees it took months.

"So, what did you think of our first day?" Ambrox asks as he sits gracefully next to me. I remove my socks and curl my toes into his leg.

I try to replace the gloominess that has descended upon me, after keeping up a façade the entire day.

"It was… eventful?" I venture, and he snorts.

"Right, Orla is so much _more_ of a pain in the ass than I expected, god fucking damn it," he mutters under his breath while laughing.

"Yeah, she's going to be difficult," I answer smiling, but my heart isn't in it.

I think Ambrox can tell I'm really tired because he pats my feet affectionately.

"You know you can go sleep right? I'll deal with whatever questions Jasmyn might have myself," he says. He's been nothing but kind to me, even though I know I'm not the ideal person to be with, in the Games.

"Nah, it's okay, we're in this together. Especially with all these weirdos running around," I answer and as if on cue, Jasmyn exits her room.

"- Thanks that would be _fantastic_, I will set up a meeting as soon as it is convenient for you. Thank you, goodnight," Jasmyn purrs into the wireless phone before turning it off.

"Mind telling me what the hell was the mess, today?" she asks coldly, her tone a complete 180 from what she had been using seconds prior.

"Unexpected circumstances," Ambrox enunciates at her, and Jasmyn scoffs.

"The Games _are_ an unexpected circumstance. You have to deal with it with grace and composure. But _no_, I turn around for one second and the next I see you screaming at another tribute. A tribute that you were too spineless to reject from your alliance, might I add," Jasmyn explains.

"I did. She just _doesn't_ leave," Ambrox whines exasperatedly, but Jasmyn has had enough.

"I don't care what she does, you need to handle yourself properly and not lose your shit this early on in the game. And Cira, man the hell up," Jasmyn snaps, turning to me. "I'd say put a leash on your dog, but you're clearly unable to keep up yourself."

"We are District 1. We are the pride of this country and you have to act accordingly," Jasmyn says softer, with something akin to pride in her voice. I internally yearn it that it was genuine, that this pride was directed at us, but I know that's how she _gets_ us.

It goes unspoken between us that everything would have been easier if Imogen was here. I know Jasmyn preferred her over me. Hell, I preferred her over me. She was so much more into this than I was. But I'm what Jasmyn's stuck with now.

I try to keep my face even, instead, just like Ambrox.

"It won't happen again, Jasmyn," Ambrox yields, but I see a flash of anger in his eyes.

"Good," Jasmyn backs off, and pulls out the customary compliment, after every reprimand. Jasmyn might seem unpredictable to some, but when you get to know her, she's like clockwork.

"You did a great job with the Twos. I'm glad you chose for them to approach you. They seem like the type who like to make that decision on their own and forcing yourselves onto them would have felt like a misstep."

"I think we can trust Seeva to keep the alliance together. She seems well-intentioned, and I don't see them betraying us early-on," I remark, trying to be useful.

"Yeah, I agree but we always need to keep our guard up," Ambrox counters thoughtfully. "Luther's… a character. Seems fun though."

Jasmyn nods.

Luther is one of the more dramatic Careers that have come out of District 2 recently, but she's already shared with us that she thinks this is to our advantage. And he does seem nice, if not a little bit on the psychopath spectrum.

"How do you feel about Morgana?" Jasmyn prompts, and I know this is the last point of discussion. I just wish to go to bed, to lie down, and move on to the next day.

"She seems fine. More Career-like than _some_," Ambrox says, biting his lip.

I know he means this about Orla, but Jasmyn's eyes momentarily turn to me, and I put my head down, as though I don't notice.

I know I don't belong here, and it hurts that she confirms this at every step of the way.

"I do approve of her addition to the team, by the way. I think she will balance out whatever bullshit District 4 stirs up. And she seems very motivated to prove herself to you guys, so use that to your utmost advantage," Jasmyn adds, putting her hands on her knees and getting ready to get up.

"Get a good night's rest, we're getting up early tomorrow for a quick briefing before your training starts again."

"Goodnight Jasmyn," we both say in synchrony, and she smirks as she heads back to her room. Where Vintage is probably waiting for her, but was too unbothered to come give us any advice whatsoever.

"Alright, I'm heading out too," I say tiredly, and yawn.

"Same here, goodnight Cira, see you tomorrow!" Ambrox says, patting me on the back and walking towards his room.

He smiles from the door and waves at me, and finally disappearing as he closes the door behind him.

I go back, and do pretty much the same, my brain feeling like lead. Even two weeks ago, I would have shut this door and broken-down sobbing on the floor.

Now, there's only numbness, with tiny simmers of rage underneath. Who knows if they're ever going to be enough to let me survive long enough to honor Imogen's memory?

I go to sleep with a heavy heart, because I can't shake off this utter feeling of helplessness.

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for being so patient, the end of the semester was intense, but ya girl survived it, WHEW! It's been a long time, but I'm giving you this (hopefully) lovely 7.5k+ chapter that propels the plot forward to compensate. This note is short and sweet because I wrote this entire mosnter in one day and my fingers ache. Please let me know what you think! _

_Peace and love. _


	30. Chapter 27: Training Day 2

**Training Day 2**

* * *

**Jean Taylor  
****District 8 Male, 16**

* * *

While yesterday the waves of nausea and the bloody headache turned my vision wonky and left me generally unresponsive to learning new things, I'm doing a lot better this morning.

And that's good, because I'm ready.

As I approach my allies, I smile brightly and wave.

"Hey guys!"

My allies both greet me, grinning at each other, and we immediately sit down to discuss the game plan for today. No one mentions anything about my crabby-ass behavior yesterday, and no one teases me about my obviously first-time-ever hangover.

"Okay squad, has anyone learned anything new since yesterday?" Geoff asks while leaning closely to the table.

"Not particularly," I shrug while looking at Logan, since he's the only one with a semi-competent mentor out of the three of us.

"I tried talking with Sunhdit, but she was so drunk I couldn't get a single useful thing out of her. But, I did talk to Morgana a little bit," Logan mentions, rubbing his chin. "I kinda pulled the guilt-trip card on her, and I think she felt bad, so I got a few tips here and there."

Both Geoff and I lean in, because Logan drops his voice to a barely audible whisper.

"Apparently a lot of people think the arena is going to be urban, as we mentioned yesterday, actually. There's also fewer books on poisons and plants, so she mentioned that it might indicate a longer and bloodier games. She hinted at the fact that practicing with some weaponry to get at least a rudimentary skill set is pretty…well, _important_."

"Okay, that's good," Geoff affirms, thinking. "At least we got the right hunch, or at least the one the Careers got as well."

"Weren't we going to practice with weapons today, anyways?" I pipe in, trying to be useful.

"Exactly! I think it's the perfect day to test out our skills, see what we're good at, so you know, we can last longer," Geoff says as he gets up, beckoning us to do the same. My knee bumps up and down underneath the table from the sheer nervousness of picking up a weapon.

I know I'm self-conscious about this part. I don't really think I'm all that great at anything, since the sharpest things I've ever wielded were the needles and scissors in Mr. Beltcher's workshop.

But we need to do this as a team, and I'm ready to give it all I've got.

"So, where're we heading first?" Logan asks, and Geoff cracks his knuckles, for emphasis or for show. I wouldn't have the slightest clue, but I find myself cracking my knuckles as well. It does wonders for my confidence.

"We could go for range stuff," I muse, as we walk together.

"I feel like … I mean, compared to the Careers, we'd get wrecked in hand-to-hand combat, so if there is one skill to learn, it's stuff that can kill them from a distance."

I hold my breath, waiting for their reaction.

I also try to hide my obvious worry. It only took two days for me to start contemplating straight-up murder as a casual and necessary action. As I wait for their answer, I internally pray that no one sees the disgust that lurches up into my throat as I dwell on what I just said.

Killing people from a distance won't be any easier than up close as far as my conscience is concerned, but I try to block that out. That's not what matters right now, and I'll deal with that when it comes.

Both my allies think it over for less than a few seconds, and agree with my plan.

"I think that's a fair assumption," Geoff affirms, leading us to the range and picking up a bow.

"I'd wager I'm absolute shit with a bow," he laughs, cocking the arrow to his face comically, squinting with one eye, his tongue lolling out and releasing the arrow. He doesn't even bother making sure it is aligned with the bow, and the arrow goes skittering a few feet away.

Logan chuckles and I hide my face in mock-shame.

"Come on Logan, show us something a little more impressive," Geoff prompts, and Logan takes a small tomahawk, positions his feet, and chucks it into another target. It hits it with a thud, and Logan's face lights up.

"Still got it," Logan murmurs as Geoff claps him on the back.

"What about you J," Logan turns to me shyly, still glowing from the success of his throw.

"I told you guys, I'm not really all that brilliant at anything," I laugh, but admitting it stings a little. They both seem so talented, even though Logan is clearly a little self-conscious about it.

I'm just… good at stuff that is completely and utterly irrelevant to being a decent ally in the Games. It hurts thinking about it for too long.

And then, just then as I'm about to spiral into a self-deprecation cycle that might last the day, I realize something.

"I played darts a lot, at home," I blurt out, rectifying my previous statement.

To come to think of it, I did all the time, after I met Safia. It was probably our favorite way to pass the time while waiting for the next order. Who _knows_, this might be the one skill that can translate into something useful.

I come close to the table with an assortment of weapons and props, settling on the ones at the furthest edge. They're the smallest thing available on this table. Small darts with sharp metallic edges and fluttery goose feathers on the other end.

I position my feet, kind of like Logan did, but while his stance was firmer, mine allows for more motion.

It feels natural the way the tiny pointy and potentially lethal dart feels in my hand.

I close my eyes momentarily, remembering the not-so-busy afternoons, when Mr. Beltcher was dealing with an unsatisfied customer or muttering angrily about a cancelled order. That's when Safia and I would do this for hours on end. Just throwing our little darts at the worn-out leather hide hanging from the back door. Trying to out-match each other.

_A lollipop to wager that you won't even hit the periphery_, I replay in my head, just to get myself into that competitive mindset. That's what Safia kept teasing me with, as I kept missing the few first times we played.

But as the years went by, I got almost as good as her. _Almost_.

And _almost_ will have to do, here.

All that is required was a little bit of focus, concentration, balance and precision, all skills you pick up while working under a masterful clothes maker like Safia's grandfather.

I smile lightly at the memories racing through my mind, squint my eyes momentarily, and release the small pointed projectile towards the target. It is light, lighter than the ones we used to play with, but it hits the target only slightly off-center.

"Wow that's _amazing_, man," Logan gushes, admiring my aim.

"Ah, thanks," I shuffle my feet, looking down.

It feels great to finally contribute something to the table. I don't want to peacock myself around too much, since I _do_ have that tendency. But being _this_ scared, this paranoid of everyone judging me felt crushing.

Being finally able to show off that I'm good at something… it settles the nerves for the time being.

"Yeah, that was really good Jean! Do you think you could try that with throwing knives?" Geoff suggests, and I look up.

I see him holding three short but decidedly very sharp daggers. They each have four holes going through the hilt, as though to fit the fighter's fingers.

I take one, and twirl it around, testing out its weight.

"Should work, if I get a bit of practice," I answer, checking out the sharpness of the blade.

I throw it, and it hits the target, slightly to the left, this time. Both my allies release small sighs of admiration, and when I turn around, I see them clapping excitedly. I can't help but grin at their enthusiasm, their energy infectious.

"Okay guys, apparently we've unlocked Jean's secret superpower," Geoff announces loudly, and I shrink back while grinning profusely. I don't want all the tributes knowing my one slight advantage, but this praise does mean a lot.

"Let's just keep practicing here. I can finetune my axe-throwing, and I feel like this is a good place to start today, right guys?" Logan asks, picking up another heavier-looking axe and passing it from one hand to another, then swinging it from side to side.

"Sounds like a plan," Geoff agrees, and picks up the bow again. "And I'll just try not to take out someone's eye with this thing."

"As long as it's none of us three, wouldn't see why that's such a bad idea," I mutter, but smile a little at the mock-horrified expression on Geoff's face.

I pick up another dagger, twirling it again. Throwing these requires the same precision as for darts, but I need to adapt to the new weight distribution.

I whip my wrist slightly harder, and the knife goes flying straighter, with more purpose.

It hits the bullseye, this time.

* * *

**Abel Collingwood  
****District 12 Male, 16**

* * *

The constant sound of people talking, whispering, laughing is like someone grating their broken fingernails on the old dusty chalkboards that made me cough when Mrs. Quoela tapped her dirty brush to get the attention of the class.

It's as though all the noises, accumulated through the years of paranoia and constant stress, are rushing through my head as I try to focus on training. The people around me flutter around, disrupting the peace that momentarily took over my mind when I realized that surviving the Games was the only way out.

I was never all that great with people.

That's only amplified with the tension that is almost palpable in the training hall. It's less awkward today, people slowly forming bonds despite the futility of the matter, but that doesn't mean the anxiety doesn't ratchet up to a thousand every time someone so much as drops a weapon on the ground or slams their fist on the fighting mat.

But people are interacting, and it's bothering me more than I can describe.

The thing is, I really _really_ don't want anyone approaching me. I don't care who they are, I don't care what their story is.

That was _all_ my kid brother could think of.

Making friends. Doing what's right.

And that played out with him dead and our family mourning until my brain snapped.

Coming here. Volunteering. It was all a grave mistake.

But I'm done making those because I can't afford it anymore. And if there's one thing that I know, it's that people coming snaking their way into my brain and heart is exactly the kind of fuck up that qualifies as a big-time mistake.

Yesterday, everything worked out fine. I haven't exactly been idle, after all. I played around with close-range weapons, finding a knack for the machete. It's easy to swing around, and I'd be lying if I didn't enjoy the wide-eyed looks I got as I trained.

I never really stood out _too_ much in the crowd, in District 12. I didn't feel the need to, considering I had no friends, and no brother. I was part of the faceless mass that got subjugated and abused and silently took the brunt of it.

But the way the younger District 3 boy's eyes went comically large as I swung the machete and spilled the silicone guts of the dummy in front of me reminded me that I am a force to be reckoned with.

I decided that I wasn't going for weapons today.

If I'm not going to have allies, I need to have all the skills I can acquire. I'm not going down because I get some kind of freak Games version of dysentery. I'm not having my parents watch one child be stabbed to death by a Career, and the other die from a festering wound or exposure.

So that's how I find myself at the survival station.

I passed by here, yesterday. Only briefly, because the pair from District 5 were lingering then, and I didn't want to disrupt what they were doing.

They're there _again_ though, so it's their problem now. I'm done being polite and tiptoeing around them.

I sit, too brusquely perhaps, because the boy whips his face in my direction, his sightless eyes seemingly focused on something far behind my right ear.

"You know, we saw you around yesterday. We don't actually mind you joining us," he says casually, and then laughs a little. "I mean, I can't _see_ shit, but you probably gathered that already."

I'm a little bit taken aback by the comment.

"How did you know it was me?" I ask defensively, straightening my back. The girl doesn't look intimidated.

"You shuffle your feet like crazy," the dark-haired girl supplies sarcastically, rolling her eyes. One eye is a brilliant blue, while the other is light grey. What an odd pair.

"Okay," I answer, for a lack of better response, and ignore them completely from then on.

I tap on the little screen near my right arm, where a small menu pops up. A lot of options seem very random, with no obvious overarching thematic pattern emerging. So much for figuring out where we're headed.

I choose the option to learn about the various toxins found in berries and fungi in continental weather regions. The images flip across the screens with brief explanations.

"She's Mara, by the way," the boy offers after five minutes of complete silence at our table. I lift my eyes in annoyance, and see Sparkle making a face at me from the adjacent camouflage table. The younger girl who is following her everywhere, Dory or Dayna or something similar, grins toothily, shifting closer to Sparkle.

"We're from District 5… damn, you're really not the talkative type," Five says and I nod slowly, before catching myself.

_He's fucking blind, who the fuck are you nodding at, dumbass. _

I must look embarrassed because Mara sighs, and whispers something to her district partner. At least the two of us seem to be on the same page about categorically refusing to speak to other people.

"Look, hey, you don't even have to talk, if you don't want to," the boy says, and proceeds to throw that statement right out of the window immediately, "What District are you from?"

"Andy, leave him be. He doesn't want to talk to us," the girl, Mara, cuts him off. She leaves out the part where it's clearly written all over her face that she's the one person here that wants to talk to me even less than I do.

"District 12," I reply, feeling a little bad, because the guy just looks so damn nice.

I regret my decision to indulge him almost immediately, because he senses this as a sign to continue his pestering.

"I'm not forcing you into anything, I just want you to think about it, Mara here kind-of needs an actually _able_ ally," Andy starts, getting swatted in the arm by Mara angrily.

"Stop it! I don't need him."

"As I was saying, if ever you want to just hang out with us while we're doing these survival tasks, maybe we could figure out whether we'd fit together for an alliance?" the boy persists, turning to face me despite his partner's very apparent reservations.

"I'm not interested," I grumble, pushing myself away from the table in frustration. Can't I just be allowed to train in peace?

I don't want to get entangled in whatever is clearly going on here.

"I'm just saying, you _know_ me now, so my ghost's gonna haunt your ass if you don't," the boy whose name is apparently Andy jokes, while wiggling his fingers in my direction.

I leave the table feeling disturbed, distraught and angry at this boy who seems to have so readily accepted death.

I didn't need to know their names, for fuck's sake.

I _really_ didn't.

* * *

**Mara Griffith  
****District 5 Female, 18**

* * *

I don't talk to Andy for the rest of the training.

I do learn some decently useful knots and plumbing tips, of all things, but we're both left scratching our heads as to how useful that can be in the upcoming arena.

Andy expresses his concerns vocally as I glare daggers at him in response.

He doesn't seem to mind it one bit.

We eat lunch, keeping to ourselves and when the bell rings, we're back at the survival station.

"You sure you don't want to go do something else?" Andy asks me as I sit down at the small screen that the District 12 boy left in a hurry without closing his progress.

He got 8/10 on the toxicology quiz. That's not bad, for someone who looks like a tall brooding hunk of depression and angst. I feel like a hypocrite for thinking like that, almost instantly.

"I mean, we could do weapons. I can just sit back and practice knots while you do that," Andy keeps pushing. I turn at him aggressively, but don't respond.

I think he realizes that his attempts are futile, so we spend the rest of the afternoon together. Not speaking, of course. After his little trick previously, I'm still too pissed off to talk to him as though that didn't happen.

But I glance at Andy every once in a while. It fucking kills me that I caused him to be damaged like this, that I doomed him to die without even seeing what's coming. It's my fault he starts out with such a disadvantage, so I have to protect him as best as I can.

As I'm practicing my toxicology skills, my mind wonders to the boy from Twelve. He hasn't come back, and I spot him all alone at the parkour station, evading the obstacles with a deadly kind of grace. He's not nearly as good as the girl from Three, who I'm pretty sure impressed every single tribute here, but he's actually decent.

_I guess you're not only good at sulking, after all_, I admit to myself darkly.

Suddenly, the bell signifying the end of training rings loud and clear throughout the hall.

"Tributes, your second day of training is officially over. Please put down your tools, weapons or any material that belongs in this room, and head to your sleeping quarters," a pre-recorded message resonates across the training hall. Same as yesterday.

"Alright, let's go Andy," I mutter, closing down the program, and erasing my progress. I don't want anyone else seeing what I've been up to, and it's a good habit to have. Covering up your traces and all that.

Andy smiles at me, and we walk together to the elevator. He doesn't say anything after chattering the entire morning, which irks me. When we get to District 5's headquarters, I confront him about it.

"What, so first you're gonna out-of-the-blue ask some random person to be our ally without even asking me about it first, and then you're going to ignore me, with that smug expression on your face?" I ask my friend calmly, but the anger is betrayed by the slight trembling of my voice.

"Mara, we _did_ talk about this. Yesterday I think I made myself pretty clear and Triss one-hundred percent agreed with me. Our mentor, as in 'the person who is going to be working to save both our asses', said that we need someone strong but dispensable. Someone we won't get too attached to. I say we need someone we can depend on. Abel … seems like what I'd like for you to have, when everything goes to shit," Andy elaborates, while closing the door behind us.

He's right, but I'm all worked up and I'm not letting him off the hook that easy.

"It's not fair that you have so little faith in me. I can protect you. We don't know this Abel guy, whose name you clearly bothered to learn, by the way, not creepy at all!"

"Yeah, _not_ creepy, considering it's been broadcast on every channel of the country!"

For the first time since this morning, Andy's cheerful façade breaks.

"I'm a burden, and I just want you to be safe. I'm trying my best here. You're my best friend, Mara." He is clearly frustrated with me pushing back at every idea he has.

"You're not a fucking burden, I am," I answer, tears springing in my eyes.

"Stop. Breathe," Andy instructs me, and I growl at him because sometimes words aren't fucking enough.

I do take a few deep breaths though, and plop on the couch in our common area, that is deserted for now.

"You need to see this realistically. You can't do this alone, Mara."

"I _am_ seeing it realistically. I can do it with you, and we'll both be okay, and –"

"No," Andy cuts me off forcefully. "Look, it sucks to admit this but it will take a miracle for me to live past the Bloodbath. I can't run properly, I can't wield a weapon, and I _can't_ slow you down like this."

"I'll protect you," I protest weakly, but the words sound hollow to my own ears.

To his credit, Andy smiles weakly. "I know you will, and I'll try my best, I _promise_ I won't give up but… you need some back-up in case shit hits the fan. And you can't just keep avoiding people. They're a lot less likely to kill you if they're staring in the face of someone they know than if they're looking at a nameless stranger."

He's right. But I can't find it in myself to overpower the stubbornness to stay loyal to ourselves and nothing else. I don't need an extra person to worry about.

"So what, you've like, officially proclaimed yourself as my agent or something?" I sniffle, trying to stop the stupid tears from escaping.

"Hey, I'm a _networking_ god," Andy answers smirking. He could have been, if he hadn't been holed up in his home like some antisocial hermit because of his disability. That realization hits me like a ton of bricks. He could have shown the world his kindness, but because of me he was denied this for the majority of his formative years.

Triss arrives into the room on his wheelchair, immediately assessing the situation.

"Already back from training! How're you guys doing?"

"We're fine, just working out a few things," Andy answers and turns his head back towards me.

"On my end, I've called a few of the people, done a bit of managerial work," Triss starts, coming closer to the two of us.

"I called the mentors from Three, Seven and Ten, to establish some kind of rapport."

Before I can interrupt him, Triss raises his hand.

"Relax Mara, Eli laughed at me and told me her tribute had other plans, which, _rude_, if you ask me but whatever. Logan is already in an alliance that is apparently pretty tight but it was worth the try. And Ten, well, didn't get all that much information from Glenn either. Still a question mark, for that one."

"We talked to someone," Andy interjects.

"Oh, who was that?"

"Abel Collingwood, sixteen, the brooding tall guy from District 12. The volunteer," Andy counts on his fingers, as though every bit of information is a number. I smile at that.

"And how did that go?"

"Horribly," I answer at the same time as Andy says that it went well.

I stifle a laugh.

"Why do you think it went horribly, Mara?" Triss presses the issue further, leaning forward.

"I don't know, the guy doesn't want to talk to us. I don't want to talk to him. I think we're fine as is," I say, conscious of the fact that I'm relapsing into the same line of thought that Triss and Andy vehemently argued against yesterday evening.

"But," I concede, "he might be useful."

Triss thinks about that for a second.

"I'll look into him. It's good that you guys established contact. I'll try my best to figure out what kind of person he is from the limited resources we have at hand, but I wouldn't discard him as a possible ally just yet. He might just be the kind of guy to hesitate to kill you, if he knows who you are."

"Yeah that was my line of thought too," Andy says and Triss smiles at him warmly.

Abel seemed like a jerk, but… Andy is right. He's always fucking right even though I don't want to admit it. Abel might be useful.

"You guys did good today. I'll do my research tonight and let you know what I find. Go sleep now, and we'll be up early to discuss if Abel is worth pursuing."

I get up, leading Andy to his room as Triss rolls next to us.

"Goodnight Mara, I'll see you in the morning!" Andy says, waving at me cheerfully.

"Goodnight Andy," I mumble. _Sorry I snapped at you today._

As I close my door, I hear Andy ask something to Triss.

At first, I want to open my door, angry about the fact that they're keeping secrets from me.

But the fact of the matter is that whether I like it or not, my entire system is in overdrive, and being this stressed and angry leaves me tired at the end of the day.

And I trust Andy, so I leave it be.

* * *

**Salamandra Mitch  
****District 3 Female, 17**

* * *

The four of us sit down for supper, Cassius and Pulse sitting opposite to Eli and I.

It's been like this ever since we arrived at the Capitol. A bit of a habit, in the midst of the excitement and the chaos, perhaps.

While I don't particularly bear Cassius any ill-will, I know for a fact he's not going to be the one to ensure my victory, so I didn't really bother interacting with him beyond what's necessary.

And from what I've gathered, he doesn't seem too inclined on interacting with me, either. I know Eli was excited to work with me after I volunteered, and Pulse naturally gravitated towards Cassius, so it worked out well.

I mean, I'm _polite_ with him.

It's not like I'm a massive bitch, but we've just got different game plans and I'm perfectly fine with that.

But we don't go as far as eating supper separately.

Pulse and Eli are currently exchanging some anecdotes that I can't begin to comprehend. As much as I loathe to admit it, a part of me yearns that kind of camaraderie. I know I won't get it in the Games, so the only way is to join their ranks.

I glance quickly at Cassius.

"You got any allies, so far?" I ask him, genuinely curious. Apparently, he doesn't like my tone, because he immediately gets defensive. Typical.

"No, but I see you haven't either," he responds, jutting out his chin in defiance. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

"You planning on it?" I ask, changing the question only slightly, and picking apart a piece of delectable bread with nuts and seeds in it. I dip it in molten cheese, and stuff it into my mouth.

"I don't know," Cassius says, and sighs. There is hidden sadness in that sigh, and I can sympathize. Maybe it sounds dumb and I'd be caught dead before I admitted it to anyone, but a part of me honestly thought that the Careers would ask me to join them.

I mean, I would have said _no_, because that's not my game plan. But it still stings my pride a little bit that they didn't think I was worth the recruitment. But regardless, they seem like quite the mess, what with Orla thoroughly fucking up their vibe.

I wouldn't touch that alliance with a six-foot pole, truth be told. Still, would have been nice to be able to rub it in their faces. Eli said it was good though, that I didn't. That would have meant enemies before the Games even start. I have a knack for that, but the action has to be saved for the Games themselves.

Cassius yawns, and I notice that the two boys finished their food. It's hard to picture Pulse as anything other than a boy, seeing as he is only about a year older than I am. If he hadn't killed four people two years ago, I would have taken him for one of the kids I'd specifically target to get by, for lunch or for a bit of spare change that they certainly wouldn't miss.

The kind of nerds that would push up their glasses and stare at you with defiance while you robbed them blind. The fuckers thought they were better than you.

But even those kinds of people can't be underestimated.

The tributes from Pulse's games learned that the hard way, and I don't intend on making that mistake.

Pulse gets up, with difficulty.

"I think we're going to go over some points with Cassie, so we'll see you guys in the morning. Night Sal, night Eli," he says, all puppy eyes for his old mentor.

I suppress an undignified snort, as Eli pretends not to notice.

"Goodnight guys. Good luck!"

Eli takes her sweet time finishing up her supper, but it's not like I'm in a hurry. It's not like I'm getting all that much sleep anyways.

She notices that I'm waiting for her patiently, and nods at the two bowls of soup we haven't touched yet.

"I'm a slow eater, what can you do. Let's take these two to go, we can finish up as we're working."

We head to her room, as we did yesterday and the night before. She's extended the offer to me on the first night after seeing how excited I was on the train and my knee-jerk reaction was to refuse, because who the hell does that with a person they just met?!

Now, I'm glad that I went along.

As I said before, she was clearly very motivated to work with me, and I could use as much help as I could get.

Tonight, she doesn't even have to ask, as I follow her into her large blue room, with two large bowls of soup in each hand. Fuzzy blankets are thrown lazily onto the bed, and half a dozen medication bottles lie around discarded. We've been here less than three days, and I don't want to begin to unravel the implications of that. Her large notebook is neatly tucked away in the transparent and futuristic-looking drawer near her bed.

She's got notes littering her entire bed, and I catch a few particularly aggressively written and highlighted notes about different tributes.

She's certainly doing her homework.

I mean, it makes sense. We hadn't gotten a volunteer since she won.

It's funny.

Eli is everything I theoretically would despise from our district.

Everything from the way she looks to the way she holds herself is contrary to my belief of what is right, and yet I find myself in her room, with a bowl of hearty soup in my lap.

She came from a staunchly neutral family, a rich and respected one at that, and those people don't sit well with me usually. But she seems so hell-bent on helping me, regardless of my story.

I find that admirable.

When I came onto the train, she greeted me immediately, telling me how excited she was to be working with me. I think it's one of the only times in my life where I'm taken at face value rather than having my parents' legacies thrown back into my face, as though that somehow justifies the abuse I am usually on the receiving end of.

I slurp my soup, drinking directly from the bowl, while Eli uses a large spoon, sipping thoughtfully at the thick and scalding hot liquid.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," Eli starts, looking directly at me.

"Ain't got much to say, 's all," I retort. "Everything's rolling."

"You know, sounds cliché as shit but I see a lot of myself in you," Eli muses. "You've got that relentless drive."

I feel my cheeks get a little hot from the praise, but I don't lower my eyes from hers.

"Why did you volunteer? I meant to ask you yesterday and the day before, but you launched yourself into strategy immediately and I wanted to ride that wave. So, I didn't have the chance," she asks me, and I pause.

"It's… it's hard to explain," I answer, not wanting to get into the specifics of it.

"I know it is. But apart from myself, there are very few people out there that can boast about the fact that they volunteered for _something_. Most of the other tributes and victors… they just survive because they're forced to. We wanted this, in a way or another," Eli elaborates.

"I volunteered because I wasn't going to allow my airhead of a sister go into the Games. She got engaged that year, you know? And I was the shittier sibling anyways, so not much of a loss if I carked it," she continues, and I nod along because I feel that deeper than I'm willing to admit.

"Both my parents died when I was four. They were loyalists, so it wasn't easy," I open up, trying to keep my tone casual. I've replayed this story so many times in my mind, that it doesn't sting as much anymore.

"I had to take care of my little sister. I needed something larger in life. A lot of people think I'm a monster, and I'm sure even more will, once the Games start, but that's the only way to live in our society, you know? That's the only way I've been _taught_ to live."

Eli purses her lips, but keeps silent.

"I … I genuinely think I can do it. Wouldn't have gone if I didn't," I finish up. "I need to win this, because I don't really have another option. For Nambie and for myself."

"I think you can, too."

Eli unfolds her legs from underneath herself, and gets up, reaching for the large notebook we spent hours scribbling in yesterday.

In there, we put our different hypotheses on the nature of the arena, the characteristics of the tributes, as well as preliminary versions of my course of action.

More than anyone, I know that this will most likely be thrown out the window the moment I'm in the arena, but there's never such a thing as being too prepared for something.

She flips all the pages, settling on the alliances plan.

"You know, apparently after your little stunt on the parkour trail, a lot of people have been looking into you. Triss from Five called me. I don't know how he got ahold of the footage, but he definitely did. He wanted you to ally with his tributes," Eli says, smirking.

"Yeah, not gonna happen," I laugh, brushing my hair out of my face.

"Exactly what I said," Eli chuckles, sitting alongside me.

Her bony wrist flicks in front of my face expressively.

"Whatever you've got going on can earn you stronger allies than that," she reassures me, as I nod.

"I talked to Glenn the other day, and it seems like his boy, Valentino Ricci, doesn't really have all that much of a clear idea of what he wants. Apparently, Glenn wanted him with the Careers, but I think you could get something out of at least talking to him," Eli mentions, scribbling down more notes. "He's the big _pretty_ one."

"Yeah, I actually sat near him during lunch. Seems like an honest guy. The Careers are clearly dealing with internal issues, so they haven't tried poaching him yet," I think out-loud, tapping my own pen against my bottom lip.

"You'll go train with him, tomorrow," Eli decides, and I bite back a remark about how I can _decide_ this for myself. We're both… stubborn and maybe a little overly commandeering, but she _is_ trying to help me.

I finish my soup, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and lean back.

"Damn, I've never felt this full since before the war," I say, laying my hands on my stomach. Eli laughs again, pushing her fiery hair behind both ears simultaneously.

"Yeah, we actually got pretty lucky, but when both my parents got fired from their universities, I remember eating the same stupid bread and disgusting porridge and thinking that there's really nothing worse out there. And then I volunteered, and shit went real' crazy."

"But you won," I respond quietly. "How did you feel, winning?"

Eli shrugs. "It felt like I earned it, at first. I genuinely believed the world owed it to me, after putting me through literal hell, and I didn't particularly feel bad about it."

She's hiding something from me, I can sense it. But I don't press any further.

"When I win, I'm going to buy Nambie so much of this, she'll never go hungry again," I sigh, rolling over onto my stomach.

"You do that. The world is yours, when you win," Eli says, and again, sadness tints her voice as she stares emptily at the bottles of medication lying around discarded around her bed.

"But before we get into that, let's go over our plan one more time. Polish it a little."

* * *

_Notes: Hope this chapter was worth the wait! Probably the last one of this decade, too, unless you folks get really lucky (wink wink). I'm always loving any kind of comments you might have about the characters, about the directions I'm taking them in and the possible alliances that are slowly emerging. In the words of the wise Kronk, "Oh yeah, it's all coming together", so any feedback is appreciated._

_If I don't post before the new year, I'm wishing you all a lovely belated Christmas and a happy new year 2020!_

_Peace and love. _


	31. Chapter 28: Training Day 3

**Training Day 3**

* * *

**Valentino Ricci  
****District 10 Male, 18**

* * *

Some things you just can't change, and you gotta move on with your life.

That's the way I like to go about it. While Addie has loosened up the tough-to-crack exterior a little bit and is decidedly less hostile than when we boarded the train, she's still clearly dealing with stuff.

I'm not one to pressure people into things, so I just let it go. I remember how pissed Alessio would get when I tried prying into his life.

I made sure Addie knows she has a friend in me if ever she needs one.

At the very least, she hasn't escaped District 10's floor without me today, which I see as an absolute win. We walk in silence to the elevators, together.

The constant shuffling of feet of the servants and the slight buzz permeating the air seems less daunting today, and I whistle a little tune as we walk.

Despite my carefree exterior, it's the last day of training and I'm mulling over what Glenn told me. I'm trying my best to not think about it too intently, but the fact of the matter is that the issue of who I'm going to ally with is becoming a pressing one.

I may not be the brightest guy here, but even I see my loner self is in the minority now.

Only a few people left that haven't really found their niche.

I'm not too worried for myself though, and Addie seems to have found a friend in Jessamine, the wiry and energetic girl from District 11.

I mean… I'm sure things will work out. I just need to keep believing it will.

I've actually found that I have quite the knack for swordplay… the trainer said I was a natural, although she might have been exaggerating. I'm nowhere near as skilled as the Careers, but I make up for it with brute strength. Apparently, all it takes is a little concentration and sword angling for me to be able to cut clean through bones with one hit.

That's not nothing, right?

Addie and I cross the doors of the training hall together, and she looks at me.

"I'll see you for supper, alright?"

"Yep," I nod at her, rubbing my chin. "What're you goin' for, today?"

She blushes, while looking around.

"I don't know yet, I'll ask Jessie."

"That's cool. I'll be at the weights, if you need me," I reassure her, leaving her with a friendly hand on the shoulder.

We've gotten to the training hall early, with only a few other trickling in. Some of the kids are yawning, while others are stretching and preparing for the last of what training has to offer. Regardless, no one seems as scared as they were on the first day, which is good.

The tension no longer feels like it's going to burst the brightly lit windows of the hall.

Or maybe it's bad, lulling the little ones into a false sense of security before they're slaughtered. But I don't want to think that way, so I push those grim and dark thoughts aside.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, preparing myself for a day of hard work. Not nearly as hard as working on the farm, _mind you_, but still. I smirk at the thought of Alessio drooling at the prospect of having to train all day, without having to worry about the animals and taking care of the farm.

Not worth the probable death warrant that's been signed and is dangled over your head daily, though.

I know we're not allowed to start at the stations yet, but I approach the weights regardless and test them out. Like, what are they going to do… _kill_ me? At worst, they'll tell me to stop if they are so inclined. I hoist up a particularly heavy-looking bag filled with something grainy.

Even the largest ones aren't as big of a challenge as I expected them to be. Again, a good sign if any.

Suddenly, I hear an insistent cough behind me.

As I turn around, I find myself face to face with a lot of wild black and decidedly very curly hair. Just a few inches below is the face of the girl from Three. Disconcertingly close, with a complete disregard for my personal space.

"I'm Salamandra Mitch," the girl says by way of introduction, and I smile at her. I sure as hell can't do anything else, with her hovering so close.

She has her arms crossed defiantly on her chest, her clavicles jutting out starkly underneath her dark green tank top. I realize her wildly abundant hair is held back by a bandana, to stop it from going into her expressive eyes.

"I'm Val," I answer back neutrally, hefting the large and weighted bag on my shoulder. Her eyes momentarily trail my arm, but after two days of literal undressing by absolute strangers, it doesn't faze me anymore.

"I've been watching you for a while now," Salamandra says, and I catch the imperceptible wince. I almost laugh, because I guess she didn't intend it to sound as creepy as it did.

I keep a straight face, letting her continue.

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in allying with me," she concludes, uncrossing her arms and setting her hands on her hips.

"That's…really nice of you, but I still don't really know what I'm doing, if I'm being honest," I tell her.

"It's funny, because I've got it all figured out to the smallest detail," Salamandra says while examining her bitten and dirty nails, as though she has the fanciest manicure this side of the Great Pacifica.

"That's awesome. I just … don't really know you," I admit. I glance around, and see that almost everyone is already here. The Careers are assembled in one corner, discussing something of utmost importance from the way their faces adopt the same serious and focused expression.

They don't look our way even once, even though it helps that we are obscured in large part by the parkour and workout installations on this side of the training hall.

"I know that, and you have no reason to trust me, but riddle me this," Salamandra circles me, adopting a snakelike conspiratorial tone. "What do you think will happen to the solo people who just roam around aimlessly without a purpose?"

I humor her, letting her continue without interrupting.

"They die," she proceeds melodramatically. "We need to make something interesting happen, and I think that with my brain," I chuckle under my breath, "and your strength, we could really give that Career shipwreck a run for its money."

Sounds like a bunch of pile of horse manure that's been left to stink for a week, but I don't comment that out loud. Salamandra seems to be enjoying hearing herself talk, and who am I to deny her God-given right to do so?

"That seems all sound and reasonable, but I'm really not the planning type," I respond lightly, not wanting to anger her. I don't want her to think it's personal, I just… really don't like committing to something I have no idea about. I usually just go with the flow.

"That's fine, I ain't forcing you into anything," Salamandra backs off, lifting up her hands in a defensive manner and smiling haughtily. Oddly enough, as she does this, our farm cat comes to my mind, its tail twitching in annoyance while it keeps an otherwise calm disposition.

I chuckle to myself again and shake my head, and Salamandra whips her gaze back at me, momentarily distracted by the Careers loudly arguing over something. The sound echoes across the training hall.

"What're you laughing about?" she asks a little too defensively, jutting her chin out. Just like Alessio. Just like Addie. For all her conspiring and sneaky attitude, she's still just a kid.

"Ah… Just stuck in my own brain, I guess," I respond, trying to convey that I wasn't laughing at her. "Lots of funny things to think about, in this day n' age."

"Well, if I can get a few minutes of your time, maybe I can convince you," she crouches, tying up her shoelaces in double knots.

I look her up and down.

She's very skinny, almost to the point of it looking unhealthy. But her arms ripple with corded muscle. A few faint scars can traced down near her elbows, and one large one at the junction between her upper limb and shoulder.

She sees me staring and I discretely look away.

"Was stabbed, you got a problem with that?" she asks, threatening smile all for me.

I raise my arms up, mirroring her defensive move from before.

"Never knew life was so tough where you come from," I joke, deflecting a little. Some small part of me wants to piss her off, if only slightly, for thinking she can show up here and buy me into her alliance.

Instead of scowling like I thought she would, she straightens up, with something almost like pride emanating from her entire being. She's taller than I initially thought.

"If you think this is what _tough_ looks like, you should see how I fight," Salamandra boasts. "Let's just say that if you hear me out, I might have more to offer than you realize."

She cocks her hip a little bit, tapping her finger on her chin as though the cameras are already on her.

"I really don't know why _I'm_ the one begging here, but the fact of the matter is that I can't execute my plan without some help, as sad as that might be."

Her eyes flash arrogantly.

I want to tell her that the fact of the matter is that I'm just _not_ getting good vibes from her, but I decide to give her something to work with.

"You're right, there's no harm in hearing out what you have to say."

She flashes me a victorious smile, and climbs up the metallic structure near the weights with which I was planning on working with today.

"Come on, don't be so gloomy. We'll play it by ear," Salamandra sneers, proceeding to hang from the handlebars upside down, as though that's the most natural thing in the world.

After a few seconds, she gracefully lands back on the ground, stretching her ankles and approaches the thirty-foot bouldering wall that I've admittedly wanted to try out.

"We'll play it by ear, then," I echo Salamandra's words as she hoists herself up on the scaling wall with lightning speed. She just never stops moving, does she?

My gut is telling me that this is leading somewhere I don't want it going, but my only other option is alienating myself from the only person here who has seen value in my skills and I'd be an idiot to let that go to waste.

* * *

**Bexley Ward  
****District 8 Female, 17**

* * *

Whoever thought that three days of training was enough is a fucking idiot. I mean, either drop the pretenses and don't give us training at all, or give us three weeks to all become competent at whacking someone's head off.

Three _fucking_ days, and I feel like I've learned nothing. That's the point though, isn't it? To dangle these skills in front of us, just out of our reach.

Show us what we _could_ have been.

It's all moronic, if you ask me.

Like, who the hell is going to be facing down an opponent and remembering the three-step-easy-to-do parrying blows they're teaching us here? I don't know about everyone else, but I'm pretty sure that I'll be shitting myself and trying my best to stick the asshole attacking me with the pointy end, logic be damned.

I don't even have some stuck-up mentor breathing down my neck, forcing me to do this. I don't really know why I'm trying at this point, but it feels wrong to just give up.

I know for a fact I'll do my best in the arena, and learning even the tiniest stupid little tidbit in training might make the difference in the long run. I _know_ that, objectively, but it doesn't make this whole process any less infuriating.

For a lack of better ideas, I head towards the electrical rewiring station. It's the only one I haven't given a quick shot, and I'd be cursing myself if we ended up in some electrical hellscape of an arena and _that_ was the only thing I overlooked.

A trainer is there, silently observing the boy from District 3 who is currently tinkering with a highly-specialized-looking piece of equipment.

I sit down on the floor next to him, looking up at the trainer.

"I ain't some kind of genius like this kid over here, I'll need a proper tutorial," I say gruffly, jerking my thumb at the kid.

The trainer first lays out the different components used for rewiring a car battery. I zone out a little bit at the basics, but snap back to attention fairly quickly when the monotone sound of the trainer's voice falters for a few seconds.

"Well done," he interrupts himself, praising the boy from Three.

"Cassius, right?" I ask him, while looking at the box in his hands. Many wires spill out sloppily from the sides, but whatever it is supposed to do, the trainer definitely seems to be of the opinion that it works. I ain't about to argue with that.

"Yeah, from District 3," the boy says, confirming my guess from before.

I don't push any further, and the trainer resumes his explanations directed at my apparently very unknowledgeable ass.

Every few minutes, a small burst of light appears at the periphery of my vision. Every time it happens, Cassius' toothy grin confirms my suspicions that he's enjoying this a little too much.

Hell, he probably grew up with wires as playthings, considering his District of origin.

Thirty minutes later, and I'm still on the same stupid fucking challenge, while Cassius has already completed all of the extra activities.

To be completely honest, I'm not sure even what the trainer looks more stressed out by: the fact that I can't successfully learn a single thing or that Cassius is flying through his challenges with scary ease.

All I seem to be able to do is produce melted rubber, to the disappointment of the trainer.

"You seem to have a problem with your circuit," the lizard of a man in front of me comments, a little too snidely for my liking.

"It's not… goddamn… working," I hiss back at him vehemently, wanting the throw the dumb wires right back into his condescending face.

"Hey, just remember that parallel and in series circuits work differently. It might be easier if I show you on paper," Cassius chimes in.

I turn on him violently, ready to tell him to mind his own _damn_ business, but I stop myself just in time. It's not his fault I'm absolutely garbage at this, and he's got a functional brain that allows him to process this kind of information, while I'm here burning wires left and right.

He takes the wires gently from me.

"We'll start with the basics I guess, but stop me if it's not useful, yeah?" he asks me, uncertain.

I bite my lip, feeling absolutely moronic. I nod at him though, much happier to be listening to someone who _actually_ wants to help. I throw a quick toxic look at the trainer, who is too busy brushing his pencil thin moustache to care. Slime ball.

"See, if you have things strung in series, meaning they're one after the other, all the electricity goes through, so if one fails," Cassius emphasizes his point by untwisting one small light off slightly, "the whole circuit stops because you've just opened it up."

"But if you've got stuff in parallel, like this," Cassius undoes the original circuit with ease, his nimble fingers flying by in front of my face as he works, "You've got components that will stay lit, even if you screw one up."

I nod. That's easy enough.

He keeps talking, about transistors, resistors and eventually shifts his focus to actually applicable stuff. The boy really has a way of explaining things, gesticulating with his arms as though his life depends on it. Funnily enough, for the first time in days, I don't feel like ripping my hair out.

"So that's really the basics, but as long as you understand the theory, you could really do anything," Cassius ends his monologue, excitedly. He glances at the car battery on the table. "Even rewiring _that_ is possible!"

You'd think he was talking about something a lot more interesting than electricity, but I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. It's so refreshing to talk to a genuine human being.

"Hey, thanks dude," I say in earnest, feeling a lot better than I did an hour ago.

"It's ah- no problem," Cassie mumbles, eyes cast down in embarrassment. It's definitely the hysteria or the madness, but I just have the unreasonable desire to ruffle the shit out of his hair, just like I did with Renzo back home.

Instead, I shove that deep down, and start practicing building simple circuits with him. It's a lot harder than he made it sound, but it doesn't feel as dauntingly impossible either. I slide in a comment once in a while, trying to make that original enthusiasm resurface.

At first, he's really shy. I mean… he seems quite young, from the way he behaves and holds himself. But after a while, I'm actually honest-to-god delighted to see him open up a little.

We even make some progress, as I make parallel strings of lights turn on, able to use a switch to alternate between the two separate loops I've managed to build.

Cassius grins in delight.

"See? You've totally got it! Damn, you know what sucks? That it's the last day… I coulda' shown you so much more," he trails off, suddenly embarrassed again.

"Shoulda' snagged you earlier as an ally, then you could've shown me more where that came from," I joke, not fully realizing what I just said until it leaves my lips.

The weird thing is I don't regret saying it. Not even in the slightest. Cassius' eyes twinkle happily.

"You really mean that?"

His entire face lights up brighter than the tiny lightbulbs did. My heart aches, as he is momentarily replaced by my kids back home, yearning and hoping to have me back. There's so much hope in these kids. I wish I shared that with them, but I had to grow up too fucking fast.

"Yeah, what the hell, why not?" I answer cheekily, smiling at Cassius. "Allies."

We shake hands comically and burst out laughing in synchrony.

"I mean, that's if you don't mind me frying half the arena with my awesome skills," I joke wryly, and Cassie scoots closer to me.

"By the way, you can call me Cass or Cassie… please? If you want? It's just so weird when it's formal," he giggles, and I laugh too.

"Sounds good, Cassie."

Who would have thought I'm going to end up saddled with this little genius for this ordeal? Not _me_, that's for sure.

At this point though, I'm pretty used to things not working out according to plan, and in this case, I ain't exactly mad about it. Pretty sure everyone had me pegged to ally with someone bigger and stronger, but maybe that isn't the way. A little part of me thinks that my kids at home would be proud of me, and who knows, maybe my instinct is right, and this is exactly the way to fly under the radar. To make this work out.

I picture my kids at home, rooting for me and look back at Cassie. He's a good kid.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

* * *

**Mona Tillery  
****District 9 Female, 13**

* * *

Three days alone kinda sucks really bad, if you ask me.

It's not even the isolation, I don't think… I wish I could just show off all the progress I've made.

If my siblings were around, I'm sure we would have already gotten into a thousand fights over _who_ wielded _what_ better.

Even as I'm acquiring new skills that I would have never dreamed of otherwise, I'm imagining what Barric would have been up to. He wouldn't be trying to mess up the order of things, that's for sure. He'd probably be at the stations which require the most brainwork.

Georgina though, she would have _loved_ it here, I think darkly. Every opportunity to rub it in my face about how much stronger and more agile she is. I'm judging her too harshly, but I can't bring myself to stop. Not when I'm stuck _here_, and my whole family is back in District 9, already mourning my probable upcoming death.

I shared all of this with Momo yesterday, once again unable to sleep. I think it'll finally catch up with me today, since my eyes droop and I can't seem to stem the constant outpour of yawns. But even with the debilitating tiredness, I can't seem to get a moment of peaceful rest.

I can't even seem to focus on the images flying by in front of my eyes, let alone the short text descriptions. I ain't a great reader to start with, and paired with two sleepless nights, it's definitely not a great combination. To put it nicely, I'm a little bit of a mess at the moment.

I doubt Momo understood what I was talking about, but he wasn't having a panic episode either, so that's a good sign. Just kind of sat there, his legs tucked into another set of pyjamas. Cartoon crocodiles this time around, printed on the soft fabric.

I told him he should sent me a real crocodile with big teeth in the arena, to protect me. He smiled at me when I said that.

The fact still stands that I've been here _three days_, fluttering around like some lost butterfly with zero direction.

I mean, on the bright side, I've done my fair share of observing and I know who to stay clear of.

Everyone, really, to 'err on the side of caution', or however the expression goes. Arla always used to say it, and I seem to be using it right, but I can never be sure. It's not like I'm going to ask one of the arrogant trainers here.

Don't need to be reinforcing my status as the stupid little girl that can't even speak right, from the poor disgusting lower-end district. Enough of that.

Yesterday, I felt like I was going to go mad from boredom and almost approached random people, just to get any feedback. It really stung when Scout left me on that first day of training, and then I saw him hanging out with that other boy, Roizer. I know I could have approached them, but some vindictive part of me just couldn't stoop down to that level. I don't want to seem _that_ desperate.

The reality of the matter is that never in a thousand years I would have thought that people wouldn't just approach me. I've always thought of myself as decently likable at school or in the fields. I always managed to make friends wherever I went.

That is probably the most counterintuitive thing of it all. I can't seem to connect with a single soul out here.

Ever since he founded his little boy band, Geoff has held his distance, and … Momo is Momo.

Ma' wasn't all that present, working and all, but my sisters always told me how annoyingly cloying I could be. They said I could come off as clingy, but I think that it offered me the opportunity to really connect with people. And now I can't seem to connect with anyone, perhaps out of fear, or perhaps because no one here thinks me worthy of their time.

Even negative interactions are something, in my books. But nope. Literally nothing is happening, and I'm still stuck here. Lonely.

It's just so boring doing it all alone, you know?

It almost feels like it's not worth it… learning all these things and for what?

With these thoughts jumbling around in my head, I miss four out of the ten questions on the practice quiz, and curse internally as I get a measly passing grade on the different comestible plants that are found growing in continental climate, whatever _that_ means.

Swallowing my pride, I bite my lip and go get a trainer. The woman towers over me, and her sleek uniform with a leaf symbol that designates her as the plants expert somehow inspires some kind of primal fear within me.

I can't even explain it.

I instinctively hunch down to make myself smaller.

"Excuse me, could you please explain to me again the differences between uh…" I hesitate, "actually, can we just go over everything?"

The trainer appraises me with a stern inscrutable look.

"Can't you read? It's all written in the electronic guide at your disposal."

My eyes nervously flit over the tablet I'm holding.

I don't want to admit to her that I can't read too well. It's just something I'm embarrassed by, especially since my ma' always put extra emphasis on all of us Tillery's being literate and all.

I mean, I _can_ read, if I try really hard… just not well enough and not for long. It just feels like it's frying my brain.

"I know that, but I think it would be better if you explained it to me."

My cheeks must be completely red from the way my face burns, and I try to refrain from scowling. The trainers are literally _paid_ to help us, so why the hell is she making it seem like it's taking some kind of herculean effort to explain something that is literally written down?

It shocks me to my core that _I'm_ sent off to my death, and _she_ still can't afford me the tiniest amount of sympathy…

I've been informed by District 9's escort, offhandedly of course, that during the interviews, we're going to be asked something about 'cultural shock'. About something that surprised us the most when we came to the Capitol from the districts, or in that spirit.

Well I know what I'm saying… it's the lack of humanity and sympathy, hands down.

I mean, I don't know what I expected but it certainly wasn't as bad as this. It wasn't the cold disaffected glances my way, when I'm just trying my best to fit in and play the game. It's not my fault I'm younger and smaller. It doesn't mean they can just count me out like that…

The trainer goes over the edible plants, mentioning fiddleheads and oxeye daisies, all plants I've seen often enough around District 9. My older sister Arla taught us quite a bit about the stuff we could eat and the stuff we should avoid, so as the familiar explanations wash over me like a wave, I really don't know why I struggled on the quiz as much as I did. It's probably just because I'm tired, still disoriented and struggling to keep everything together.

I mean, our family was never rich, and we often lived off of the wild mushrooms and roots we gathered ourselves. I just needed someone to explain it to me, and even though this trainer isn't nearly as patient as Arla, the knowledge still sticks better with her around.

Thinking of that makes an idea burgeon in my brain as the trainer finishes up and asks me if I need any clarifications and if I understood.

"Yeah, I did! Thanks a lot," I reply hastily, not wanting to get on her bad side. "Say, you don't just do plants…you're the toxin lady too, right?"

The trainer smirks and nods. "Yeah, I guess you could say I'm the … toxin lady."

"So, you know everything about deadly mushrooms?"

She nods again.

"Teach me please," I ask her timidly, but my heart starts beating a little faster. I might actually have an idea. Even if I'm grasping at straws now.

Something in my head that sounds like Arla's voice beckons me. I know it's not my sister, because it's all in my head and besides, she'd never have that kind of evil predisposition.

I already know quite a bit about edible mushrooms found in District 9, the delicious orange chanterelles and the slimy slippery jacks that my ma' managed to grow in our garden after disseminating their spores around a few years in a row in the hopes of them eventually taking root near our house. We ate them with vinegar and wild onions.

But there's some _bad_ ones, the ones that paralyze or make you vomit blood. Arla always glossed over the details of what exactly happened… just told us to never ever eat them or give them to anyone under any circumstance. That's not what Arla's voice is telling me now.

I am positive the real Arla wouldn't ever condone me to resorting to violence, but this is an extenuating circumstance and I will take responsibility for what I'll do, if I'm ever given the opportunity. It's not like I really stand a chance with a weapon.

Even the girl from District 6 could hack me in half.

But with this… I might be able to…

Not that there's any guarantee I'll find anything in the arena.

But there's always a chance, and I'd be a fool to let my time in training go to waste.

I smile innocently at the trainer as she starts another lesson, with three hours on the clock until training concludes.

It has to be enough time.

* * *

**Ambrox Linden  
****District 1 Male, 18**

* * *

I remember that when I was a few years younger, I always thought that the training days leading up to the Hunger Games were a formality. For us Careers, at least. Nothing you couldn't have learned in the past six years. I vaguely remember my dad saying something similar at the dinner table a couple of times… maybe that's why I had that impression in the first place.

That idea was promptly thrown out the window approximately thirty minutes in, when our alliance formed, and Orla decided to join. Not so much a formality now, when I have to actively stop myself from punching her through the skull. I guess somewhere there's a lesson to be learned in patience, or some bullshit like that.

It's no secret that I hate her guts. I'm pretty sure everyone is annoyed with her, but I openly, vehemently and relentlessly _hate_ her.

There was a moment, and I'll _admit_ to this, where I thought the girl was honest-to-god just trolling us. Trolling us to hell and back, dragging us through the mud, and one morning she would just show up, apologize and leave us the hell alone. Maybe die of exposure a few days into the Games like a good tribute.

At this point, I wouldn't even be angry.

I'd go so far as to pour one out for her, if I got back home, because that's some hardcore method acting if I've ever seen any. I mean, the level of commitment to incessantly grate on everyone's nerves… that's commendable.

But of course, that hasn't happened, has it?

Instead, she's still her insufferable self and I'm counting down the minutes until the end of training, throwing spear after spear with Morgana, Seeva, Cira and Luther.

Not Orla, mind you. She's sitting on the bench, sipping specially requested sparkling water because she's above practicing with the rest of us. Throwing a few misplaced punches at the dummies was enough of a workout as is. It's not like she even tried to do anything remotely out of her comfort zone. We went climbing, and yet again she lagged behind. Luther even tried riling her up, but she just explained how she was afraid of heights, and that was that.

As though that's the kind of information you give up willingly like that to a bunch of people that in the Hunger Games. It's not like anyone would ever use that against her, least of all me.

Not like she needs the training, when the rest of our alliance are sweating our asses… of course not. Not that her acerbic comments about the other tributes don't reach us. No one here could dare to reach her level of competency and motivation to win.

Apparently, all you have to do to survive a situation is to _believe_.

Her words, not mine. It's fucking unbelievable.

I mean, who wouldn't drop _dead_ when you've got a person like Orla strutting around like she owns the place? I've literally admitted to the fact that I would saw off my own left hand if that meant that Orla disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke.

But unfortunately, that's not something that happens in this nice realistic universe or ours. So, I'm stuck trying to commandeer a team of admittedly competent-enough people and an absolute asshole who just likes stirring up a shitstorm at every opportunity.

It's bloody ridiculous, we all know it, and yet we're tiptoeing around it like a flock of geese.

Something has to be done about this.

"Tributes, your third and last day of training is officially over. Please put down your tools, weapons or any material that belongs in this room, and head to your sleeping quarters."

The message resonates loud and clear throughout the hall.

Weapons clatter to the floor and the dragging of multiple pairs of feet is heard as the tributes file out of the training complex.

Some people look almost disappointed that this is over, but a wave of relief washes over me as I walk towards the exit. No more of this bullshit.

If I had any dignity left, I'd walk with the rest of my alliance, but I make my escape, cowardice be damned, and practically sprint towards the elevator and push the button aggressively.

"Hold the door please!"

No such luck.

I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes as a well-intentioned Cira runs up to the elevator, and diligently holds the door as the other Careers get on.

No one else dares take this elevator, waiting timidly for the next ride. Nonetheless, six people in an elevator is just _this_ side of uncomfortable.

For once, Orla doesn't make any inappropriate comments. She stands all the way in front, impatiently tapping her foot against the gold and glitter floor of the elevator.

I look into Cira's eyes behind her back, and she understands my intention almost immediately.

She does not get off on our floor, the doors opening and closing awkwardly.

"We want to go exploring the roof," I say casually, by way of explanation. "I haven't gone there yet, and I thought tonight would be the ideal time, considering we'll be too riled up tomorrow night for that."

I punctuate my sentence with a pleasant and relaxed smile and a wiggle of the eyebrows, looking directly at Seeva.

The elevator speeds past the second floor.

"Cira and I have been so busy with training and getting enough sleep that we haven't had time to go there yet. It was always a dream of mine as a boy," I jerk my head back lazily to get my hair out of my eyes at the same time as I prop up my arm against the wall, "to see the Capitol from a bird's eye view. Something about the freedom of being so high up…"

Orla physically recoils. _Huh_.

Didn't think her fear of heights was as bad as that. Good to know.

I see the gears turning in Orla's head as she hesitates, and then jams her finger into the button labelled with a 4.

"I'll be turning in, see you all tomorrow," she says but there's a flatness to her voice. For the first time since I've had the displeasure of meeting Orla, I think she senses something is off about the situation.

The doors open, and she strides out of the elevator without any further comment.

Morgana makes a move to press the button corresponding to the seventh floor, but Seeva stops her by blocking her hand gently. _She's not a Career yet_, I want to say but I bite down on the comment and remain silent.

I didn't particularly want her there at our impromptu meeting, but I don't say anything. I already have enough conflict on my plate, so I file away a mental note to talk to Seeva about this later. We just have a lot of things to clarify. It sounds petty even to me, but it's all Orla's fault we haven't as of yet.

I lied to Orla when I said I hadn't visited the balcony. In truth, I went there alone yesterday, staying up for the better half of the night. I love watching the city buzz with life, and Jasmyn found me in the early hours of the morning. She loves it too, and it was nice to just sit there. All responsibilities and stress shoved aside in favor of just… observing this behemoth of an organism, made up of millions of people and machines.

When we arrive to the appropriate floor, we exit, shuffling along the spacious corridor.

I fling the door open, and we are met with a pleasant and cold breeze. Involuntarily, I release a satisfied sigh.

I hear a whistle behind me.

"This is goddamn majestic," Seeva says, and I turn around to see her crossing her arms across her chest, but her eyes shine with wonder. Morgana imitates her pose, hiding her awe only slightly better.

Luther and Cira race to the railing in unison and I almost laugh at the excitement emanating from them if I hadn't felt the same rush the day before when I discovered this place.

"As beautiful as this admittedly is," I start, "we need to talk about the situation."

"_The_ situation," Luther echoes my words and laughs.

"I mean, what is there to talk about?" Seeva sighs tiredly, sitting down directly on the floor. Her eyes trail the horizon which is peppered with neon-colored buildings with huge billboards. Advertisements of various products and past victors flash past. Sunhdit of District 7 smiles proudly from a pedestal. All for show. She is replaced quickly by an anti-aging cream with some nanoparticle technology involved.

"Well, for one, we can talk about our actual strategy, since we haven't had a single minute of uninterrupted peace."

"I don't know, I mean, we can just… wing it," Luther offers, and I try not to facepalm.

"We can't," I interject, "because we've got an unpredictable and frankly handicapping variable that stands in our way."

"I agree that Orla's annoying, but we can't do anything about it right now," Seeva ponders slowly, and Luther crouches next to her.

"I mean, we could," I argue. Morgana remains silent. I kind of wish she'd say something now, make her presence here justified, if only for me to have a reason to download all my doubts on my allies.

"Come on, you guys have to agree with me."

"As far as we're concerned, we're not doing anything until the Games. Then, it's fair game, but she's definitely not our priority. There's bigger fish to fry, Ambrox," Seeva explains and stretches her ankles, as if preparing to leave the conversation at that.

We sit in silence, only the distant wail of some emergency vehicle breaking up the serenity. I don't exactly know how long we sit there together. Without Orla here, it almost feels natural. I don't trust any of them, not by a mile, but that was never bound to happen in a place like this.

I can see in their eyes that they're not taking me seriously, though. They don't understand how deeply unsettling it is for me to have to interact with a person who from one minute to another can cause some unpredictable problem. They might not have those reservations, or maybe they just don't have that kind of forethought, but I do and it's going to drive me crazy.

After a while, Luther gets antsy. I can see his knees jerking up and down, and some unspoken message passes between him and Seeva because she gets up slowly, still looking on pensively ahead.

I get up with them mechanically, because the height difference makes me uncomfortable. Always try to be level with your opponent to avoid being incapacitated on the ground. That's the rule of thumb.

Luther turns around, as if to leave. Impulsively, I grab his arm and Seeva stops almost instantly. I can see the imperceptible shift in her shoulders.

She's well-trained, I'll give her that.

Always _en_-_garde_, ready to attack or defend, depending on the scenario. Even though she would tower over Jasmyn, she's still got a similar poised stance which is hammered into trainee recruits.

"Wait, you guys can't be serious," I hiss, incredulous, breaking the comfortable silence. "We're not even going to _talk_ about it?"

The tension is back, washing over us in waves. Morgana looks like she's about to side with me, but still keeps her lips firmly shut.

"I mean, it's not polite," Seeva chuckles, and I'm not sure if she's sarcastic but I'm at wit's end, so I don't handle it well.

"It's true, we can wait a few days and maybe she can just leave on her own," Cira tries to offer, as a solution.

"Oh, cut the crap," I interject, letting anger tint my words. Cira shies back. I didn't mean to be rude with her, and I file away an apology for later.

We're no closer to a consensus than before, but that's just teamwork for you.

"Look, Ambrox, what do you want us to say? We're not hurting her before the Games. It's not happening," Luther says, and he sounds only incrementally disappointed.

"I'm not saying we should! I just want… for fuck's sake, I just want a clear plan and the reassurance from you guys that she's not going to a permanent burden," I deflate as I finish this sentence.

Cira slides up closer to me, putting a hand on my arm. Her eyes search my face.

"I think we're all tired, let's just go and we can talk this through another time," she says, and I put an arm around her, on autopilot. Seeva and Luther immediately look incredibly uncomfortable. District differences on physical contact, and all that.

"I think that's a good idea," Morgana pipes in, and I acquiesce regretfully.

We all say our goodbyes, wishing each other a restful sleep, and before long, Cira and I are on our floor. I understand now that we're never getting this resolved, unless someone takes drastic action.

Why can't it just be simple?

Lounging on the couch, Jasmyn greets us, smug as a leopard who just caught prey in its jaws.

I go directly to bed, having no energy to deal with her games today.

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for your patience once again. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! As you probably noticed, updates are coming a little slower. I am dealing with a lot of stuff coming from all spheres of life, but I always love coming back to writing this story. January is a hectic month, but I'll try to post another chapter at the very least before it's over. _

_Now that we are thankfully finished with training, we'll kick off a few chapters with Gamemaker sessions, scores and interviews, before the night-before chapter. And then it's off to the races! _


	32. Announcement

Announcement

_Notes: Whoever is still reading this: hey! Something incredibly important happened in my life: despite all the odds stacked up against me, I got a medical school interview at the only school I applied to. It wasn't only one of the best moments of my life, but it was also the culmination of half a decade of hard work, mistakes, failures and successes. _

_Just for some perspective, getting this interview is like making it to the Final 8 in the Hunger Games. The competition is fierce, no doubt about it. Except in my case, I'm that lanky thirteen/fourteen-year-old with a huge disadvantage, and there's still a long way to go before I get out on top. The most challenging part is yet to come. _

_Originally, this upcoming chapter was supposed to feature 4 complete POVs, but considering this extreme change of circumstances, it's just this note. As such, this chapter is meant as a reminder that I'm not going anywhere… **I'll just be indisposed until February 18th and I promise I'll get back into it**. All the planning is done, all I need to do is spend the time writing the chapters, which is something that has to wait a couple of weeks. This will be deleted once I get a real chapter out, but for now... in the Terminator's words, I'll be back. _

_Lots of love to all of you. Please root for me. _

_Peace and love._


	33. Chapter 29: Gamemakers Sessions

**Gamemaker Sessions**

* * *

**Luther Szeto  
****District 2 Male, 18**

* * *

"…just going over the ground rules again, _no_ stabbing the Gamemakers, _no_ threatening the pregnant lady, no… Luther are you even listening, this is for your benefit and your benefit only!"

I look back up from my bowl of crunchy marshmallow-sprinkled cereal.

"Yeah I got that from the first time we went over this," I say slowly, looking over at Athena, then Sujax and Seeva.

Judging from their faces, they don't seem convinced. Not entirely, anyways.

"If you pull _any_ shit…" Athena starts fretting again, and I resist the urge to flick a yellow-colored sugar star right into her eye.

I keep eye contact for a smidge too long, because her wiry wrist flicks in annoyance. I've been privy to the way she flicked knives and daggers at people who annoyed her too much.

"I won't," I cave in, to my great displeasure. Besides, I wouldn't threaten the pregnant lady. I'm not a _monster_.

Seeva nods in approval, clearly satisfied. Only Athena still looks on edge, but that's just Athena for you. She doesn't understand my strategy, but that's alright, I guess.

Maybe it's just that she still hasn't wrapped her brain around the fact that I'm the volunteer she _wanted_. Even though she doesn't necessarily want to admit it to herself, it's true.

She'll come around, I'm sure. That's Athena for you.

We sit around for a little bit longer, but it's mostly Seeva and Sujax talking. I tune them out a little bit, staring at Athena's ear as she pointedly ignores me.

When it's time to leave, she grabs my arm as I'm about to make my exit.

"You better not fuck this up," she hisses at me, and I grin at her. I won't. I don't even have to say it for her to know it deep down.

Once we get to the waiting room, we sit down with Cira and Ambrox. I can't really get a read on Seeva's true feelings about the two, but I actually like them quite a bit.

"You guys ready?" Cira asks in a small voice, pushing her hand nervously through her flaxen pale hair.

"Born ready," I chuckle, and Seeva nods. Everyone is tenser than usual, even me. The tension only increases when Orla pushes herself between Cira and me. Seeva and Ambrox keep a stony expression at her arrival.

She launches herself into a detailed description of her late-night activities, something related to her birth parents, but I tune her out. It's not important, regardless.

Cira is the only one to entertain her with half-hearted responses, but Orla remains undeterred until Ambrox steps out, visibly relieved to be anywhere but around her. Soon after, Cira follows. She touches my shoulder lightly as she gets up.

"Good luck Luther, you're going to be great," she whispers, almost sadly, and I kind of grab onto her hand and squeeze.

She's visibly stressed out, with dark bags under her eyes that stand out even under the layer of makeup she put on.

She's a nice girl.

I almost feel bad for her as she walks lightly, followed out by an undignified snort from somewhere behind me. I whip my head around to stare at the girl from Twelve, Sparkle Aire, imitating Cira and whispering something to her ally. The other girl blushes and giggles, but bites her lip and averts her eyes as soon as she catches me watching them.

Sparkle doesn't drop her gaze, staring at me defiantly.

I don't have time to really think about it for too long, because before I know it, I'm next.

"Luther Szeto, District 2," the man with the ghostly complexion lisps into the microphone so much so that the air catches in the most uncomfortable way. Creepy.

I slide past him, Seeva throwing a reassuring thumbs up at me as I go.

I am led into the training hall, that has been transformed for these sessions. Only slightly.

Taking in my surroundings slowly, I tilt my head as I plan the best course of action. We went over what I needed to do with Seeva and our mentors, but I just want to make sure the Gamemakers aren't throwing any curveballs at us this year.

You never know, it _happens_.

The weapons rack is to my right, while the fighting mats are in the middle. Front and center for maximum spectacle potential. I smile at that.

The Gamemakers sit on an elevated stage of sorts, surrounded by an elegant balustrade. It's all really ornamental, the designs complemented by the twirls in the marble that makes up the railing.

They're not even protected by glass.

I smirk. Well, I wasn't _going_ to threaten the pregnant lady, but this just seems like an invitation. I stop myself before I can fully commit to the idea, picturing Athena decapitating me in real time. I mean, it wouldn't be the worst way to go, but…

"Hi, I'm Luther," I say simply, by way of introduction. I pick up a spear. It has a willow-leaf shaped tip, which is what I've practiced with since I remember. I test it against my finger, drawing a drop of blood. Not serrated in the slightest, that's perfect.

The Gamemakers all stare down at me, a few whispers trailing through their ranks.

"I'll need a dummy," I continue, placing myself on the mat.

While they bring in the dummy, identical to the ones we used for training, I stretch my limbs for the last time before I begin my dance. It's always a dance, a few ethereal moments when I truly feel beautiful. Ethereal. A word that Alice drummed into my brain because she was sick of me trying to describe this amazing feeling.

I twirl the spear, for showmanship as well as for the familiar feel of the weapon in my hand.

And then I begin in earnest. I feign a stab at the dummy's left side, twisting under its arm and slicing through its right shoulder. Not enough to kill or even seriously injure. It's just for fun at this point.

I keep spinning around it, cutting and cutting.

The shallow cuts become deeper as I continue my work of art.

I break the dummy's sternum with the back of my spear. That hit alone would knock all the air out of an opponent. Maybe even incapacitate them fully enough time for me to finish the job. But I don't stop until I am covered in red goop. The cuts expose viscera, striated muscle and tendons now, the dummy a gushing mess.

I pose with my weapon, for the benefit of the Gamemakers. After all, my handywork took under 3 minutes. I still have plenty of time to show off.

The dummy behind me looks like he went through a shredder, and I smile again.

"Now if you could ever be so kind as to provide me with a fighting opponent," I ask politely. My voice sounds small to my ears, almost childlike, but that's how it always is when I get excited about fighting. Never breathless though.

I clear my throat.

A man approaches me, handing me a new spear. This one has a blunter edge. They don't want me killing anyone of their staff, which is fair, I guess.

I appraise my opponent and note immediately that his stance is off. His left knee, is a few inches inward, meaning he will be disadvantaged once I push him off balance.

I smile widely at that. His frown deepens. People are just no fun!

I step forward and strike the first blow, which to his credit, he parries.

And then he starts advancing, hitting and jabbing at me.

The wood sings and vibrates against my hand, bending exactly the way I want it to, to block the attacks of the man in front of me.

I parry, quicker than he could ever hope, sidestepping around him as I go.

Thrust, parry, thrust. Stab twice.

And then, I smash him with the backend of my spear in the nose.

Blood gushes out and the man lets out a stunned huff as the sharp end of the spear comes into contact with his throat. I stop about half an inch from his jugular.

The pregnant lady even claps a little, giggling with excitement.

_See Athena, I even made her happy_, I think, as I step aside.

Lastly, I feel the need to show them that I can hold my own without a weapon. So, I throw down my weapon and stare at my bloodied opponent. I see the rage in his eyes, simmering beneath.

He doesn't bother discarding his spear, attacking me.

He's a decent fighter, although I can tell from his stance that the spear isn't his preferred weapon. Even if it were, it doesn't make a huge difference for me, because I'm faster and nimbler. That's kind of my whole _thing_.

The whole fight takes under four minutes, and I drag it out a little, showing off fancy kicks, punches and feints.

And then I get bored, because that tends to happen when things go on for too long. So, I disable the trainer quickly by using his own momentum to slam him violently onto the ground.

The throw is so strong that it rattles my own rib cage, but from the way he spits blood reflexively on my face, I know I've done damage.

I bow a little, and make my exit, not bothering to look back at the stunned crowd of Gamemakers.

Yeah bitches, I _am_ that good.

* * *

**Jessamine Law  
****District 11 Female, 16**

* * *

It's funny how anxiety works.

Objectively, I know these sessions aren't worth the insane rhythm my heart is beating to, right now. This is just meant as an assessment of a tribute's skills before the arena, which, to be fair, has little to no correlation to the aforementioned tribute's survival.

That's what Casmir said. He repeated it to me as I struggled to stay in one place for too long, last night, so it _must_ be true. It's all superficial until you're in the Games.

And yet, I can't help but feel the stress ratcheting up to unbearable levels as we are herded into an isolated room to wait for our name to be called. The metallic walls hurt my eyes with the glare that bounces off of them. I feel like shit, to put it lightly.

It's like… _sure_ I'm in a deathmatch, but the fact that I'm maybe thirty minutes away from having the judgemental eyes of a dozen Gamemakers somehow feels worse.

Somewhere at the back of my brain, this reminds me of the countless sleepless nights I wasted worrying about one test or another. Did it matter, in the end? It certainly won't matter if I die in the upcoming days. How well I wield a weapon in that room won't matter either.

I breathe in deeply and release the air loudly through my nose.

My leg jerks up and down at a quick pace.

I wonder precisely how _many_ Gamemakers will be there, judging us, dissecting our every move and assigning us a number that reduces our worth to nothing. I wonder if there's going to be more of them, hidden behind the walls or hidden glass, somehow observing us unseen. Like ghosts.

That's the most nerve-wracking aspect of it all, because I can't even _tell_ if they like me or not.

I sit there, with my hands on my knees and my head lolling periodically from side to side, just to relax the tension on either side of my neck.

We're all seated together, in this room that feels like it's going to singlehandedly suffocate us all. Even the Careers look more stressed out than usual. Out of the twenty-four of us, there's maybe five people who don't look at the very least uncomfortable.

One of them being my District partner. Little Tyree.

He sat near me, but hasn't uttered a single word.

Honestly, I don't even know how to react to him, so I leave him be. In any other scenario, I would have hugged him, or done anything a normal human would but he just… I can't even explain it.

He scares me.

In the same way a rotting animal with its insides hanging out on the side of the road would.

There's something wrong with him.

Addie sits to my right, rubbing her hands nervously together.

"Don't stress, you got this," I reassure her, and her lips quirk up momentarily.

"Do you know what you're going to do in there?" she asks, after a moment of deliberation.

She's not the talkative type, but we've gotten along quite well over the past three days.

I can't bring myself to feel like I can _trust_ her, just yet. My nerves feel frayed at the edges already and I know it's going to get worse here on out. But there is something with Addie that pushes back the dread a tiny bit, allowing me to focus on the task at hand instead of succumbing to the panic. She's just like me, even a little bit younger. It's one of the grounding things out here, where I'm untethered from anything I've ever known.

It's what they want, for us to form these human connections before ripping them away. I'm not stupid.

But the fact is that it's _nice_ having someone like her around.

And that's the bottom line, right now.

As far as Hunger Games-acquired friends go, she's pretty great, I think, before stopping myself from going down that rabbit hole.

I breathe in and out again, a few times. It doesn't do wonders for my racing heart, but the increased flow of oxygen certainly allows me to clear my brain at least a little bit.

After a few moments to think about what to answer to her question, I shrug my shoulders.

"I think I'll just run around a bit on the parkour track, show them I'm fast, and pick up a sickle and hack at some stuff until they dismiss me," I say vaguely. While in training, we both went around together trying a few different things, but we never really settled on anything specific.

I mean, how good can you get at a certain skill, with three days of practice if it's not something you've picked up previously?

I can't say I love the idea of using weapons to get by, but at this point, I just want to show the Gamemakers that I'm worth _something_.

While thinking back at the steps and thrusts we practiced in training, I kind of zone out when the first few tributes are called. I jerk back to reality as the girl from Three, the one with the weird name, is called.

Addie peers at me from under her curly hair, as my head snaps back to attention. Seven districts to go before Addie goes in.

Eight before I go.

Salamandra Mitch struts out of the room confidently, a bounce to her step, cracking her neck as she walks. She shoots two thumbs up to Valentino.

Addie's district partner smiles back, waving at her. They didn't sit together, but they've clearly interacted before. Interesting, not something I noticed.

Addie rolls her eyes in response.

"So, what, they're a thing now?" I ask nervously, to diffuse some of the tension. "Alliance-wise?" I clarify, after a second, just to make sure I don't poke at a sore spot with Addie.

I kind of caught onto the fact that she likes Valentino. _Likes_ him. But for some reason, she's decided to stick with me, and I'm not one to complain.

"I don't know, he's insisting they're not, but they've trained together and she's awfully friendly with him," Addie huffs back, and I can feel the disappointment permeating from her in waves. It goes unspoken between us that Salamandra hasn't made the slightest effort to be nice to anyone else.

We stay quiet for a while, and more people trickle out. We see the cocky girl from Four go in, followed soon after by her small district partner.

He clings nervously to the boy from Six for a few moments before leaving unhappily.

The boy from Five is called first, and his District partner leads him to the door. He pretends to trip the moment she lets go of him, and her disapproving glare follows him inside as his chuckle is cut off sharply by the door closing behind him.

Addie and I both stare as the girl plops herself down aggressively on a bench.

Alone, without her partner, she grabs herself around the waist, as though trying to shrink around her misery.

The Sixes follow.

The girl is particularly distraught, looking like an animal about to be slaughtered. Sparkle lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder while tucking a few strands of pale hair behind her ear.

I didn't peg her as a particularly kind person. It is what it is though… this situation brings both the best and the worst out of people.

Four people until I need to go in there.

Three now.

Although there are fewer people in the room, it feels stuffier.

I wish Addie best of luck absentmindedly as she gets up in anticipation of getting called.

She shifts from one foot to the other.

"I'll see you on the other side, then?" she asks hesitantly, and her voice betrays her fear.

"Yes, absolutely. You'll nail it in there," I tell her.

Valentino walks up behind her and sets a hand on her shoulder. She just about jumps out of her skin and blushes. I suppress a giggle.

"You'll be great, don't stress so much," he reassures her.

She nods tersely, but her voice comes out soft. "You too."

"I'm not stressed, but you both look like you're just about ready to power an energy generator," he winks at her, and then looks at me as he finishes his sentence.

I huff in mock indignation.

"It's an entire energy factory, thank you very much!" I respond after him, as he's leaving.

It diffuses the situation, if only a little bit.

Before we know it, Addie is leaving too. I hug her quickly, not knowing what else to do.

"I'll see you on the other side," she repeats, this time with more resolve.

"Sure thing, boss," I reply, and that's the end of that. I'm next, and I have no idea what I'll be doing, and I still feel like I'm about to explode.

But my ally, my friend, is going to wait for me on the other side.

And for now, that's good enough of a motivation to prevent me from throwing up from the stress.

* * *

**Cassius Fleur  
****District 3 Male, 15**

* * *

You know that feeling when you totally bombed something?

Well, if we were going by approximation, that's pretty much what I felt the moment I came out of the session. Like I crossed two wires that I wasn't supposed to, and the whole thing exploded in my face.

It… uh… wasn't _great_.

First off, who in the actual hell put these assholes up on a podium above us? Like, _no pressure guys_, we hold your life in the balance, let's hover ominously as you perform menial tasks for our entertainment!?

What the actual fuck.

Needless to say, I was _not_ a fan. And now that it's over, I can't help but agonize over every tiny little detail of the excruciating experience. The way my voice cracked as I tried explaining what the hell I was doing. The way half the Gamemakers literally turned away from boredom.

Dicks.

I'm still shaking a little bit from the nerves that gripped my heart as I struggled to breathe from the sheer stress of it all. And it's not like they make it easier on you… oh no, they literally gave no shits.

On the bright side, I'm getting a little closer to being the first tribute to die of a fucking heart attack before the games even start, so _that's_ something new!

I rub my hands into my eyes, pressing hard to stop myself from spiralling again.

The thing with me is that I have no problem _doing_ things, tinkering with equipment… it's almost stereotypical at this point. But the moment you put a goddamn audience in front of me, I just feel like melting and disappearing into the cracks of the floor.

And it doesn't help that after the Careers, my session must have felt like a goddamn let-down.

It sucks feeling like this.

I just wish Bex could get here faster, so I wouldn't be stuck alone with the tributes from Districts 1 and 2. It's not only terrifying, but it's also _so_ demoralizing, seeing them all together, while I'm huddled alone in a corner.

Even on the train, I didn't have _time_ to feel alone, because Pulse was always there when I needed him. He's been incredibly good to me.

He's different from Ryland, less forceful and loud and all-encompassing. But I would be lying if I didn't feel like I owed him the world for treating me like a proper human being whereas everyone else has only made me feel like shit. Except for Bex, of course.

Pulse warned me the session would go badly. He said he repeatedly made mistakes in his, not even having the time to complete a basic trap design before he was let go.

Still won and that's what counts.

I don't feel like a winner though, least of all now. I feel like a loser who's going to die alone and scared.

"Keep it together Cas," I mutter to myself as the Careers laugh together. I twist my fingers into my hair, kneading it like my cat used to with her favorite rug. Before she died.

Can't think like that. Gotta think positively until Bex gets here.

"I twisted the dagger so that it digs into the dummy's throat, and then jerked it to the left," the boy from District 1 explains while gesticulating with his elegant hands. "The head actually came off, so I think they liked it." The same hands that might be choking the life out of me, in two days' time.

The praises and claps from the others ricochet harshly against the walls of the waiting room, identical to the one we were stuck in before our sessions.

I shudder.

These cursed rooms remind me so much of the war days that are but an ugly echo in my mind. I can't _remember_, but the sounds bring back a fear so primal it _can't_ be anything else.

I concentrate on breathing, as the door opens and closes with a bang. I lift up my head, prompted by the measured steps resonating throughout the room.

The overwhelming desire to crawl into a ball seizes me once again, but I force myself to look at my district partner who comes in, the epitome of self-accomplishment.

I kind of hate her, in this moment.

She's the only one of us in the room that remains standing, putting herself in the corner and pressing her back against the wall while crossing her arms. She acknowledges me, and we leave it at that.

Part of me almost caves in and drags myself to her, just to have someone to talk to. But I stay put for what feels like ages.

The door opens once more, the shuffling of feet across the floor more uncertain and hesitant than Salamandra's could ever hope to be.

Scout stumbles in, hugging himself across the waist, and sits down on the first available bench.

He looks like he's about to cry, already starting to sniffle a little bit. He's only a few years younger than me, but I feel his distress down to my very core.

Before I can even process what I'm doing, I get up from where I was sitting, and walk towards the little boy who is sitting in a half-crouched position.

I sit down next to him and clear my throat awkwardly.

"Hey, um, are you okay?" I ask, and he jumps back from the sudden intrusion of his personal space.

"Yeah, uh, yeah I'm fine," he whimpers, wiping aggressively at his eyes and nose. There's pure fear permeating from him, and I can't help but feel for him.

God, why are they forcing us to be this _scared_? It's not enough to kill us…

He looks so helpless and I want to cry with him, but I don't. I take his hand into mine instead, even as he tenses all over when I do that. When I was panicking, I remember the way Pulse pulled me out of a downward spiral of panic and desperation and that's exactly what I need to do with the boy next to me.

I want to distract him, so naturally, I spout the random-est shit I could think of.

"Did you know people can sweat up to 5 liters from their hands?"

Scout gawks, his mouth falling slightly open. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, it's called something like whatever-hyperhidrosis… it's whack," I continue, absolutely certain my fact is bullshit but keeping my face completely serious. "I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure we're two hyperhydrosises stuck together."

Scout laughs, a high-pitched little thing. He retracts his hand, blushing slightly.

"Ahahah, that's funny," he answers, rubbing his admittedly very sweaty hands together.

I applaud myself internally at the clear switch I see in his eyes. There's something like gratitude in them. I smile toothily at him.

"It's _not_ funny when you're trying to score a date, and you release a river on them," I joke quietly, motioning around with my hands as though I'm bending water to my will. Awkward jokes are my jam and in any other scenario I'd keep myself quiet, but Scout looks like the kind of kid who'd appreciate.

Scout smiles, his previous worries behind him, and we actually _talk_.

I tell him to call me Cassie.

Not very loudly, not wanting to attract the attention of the stronger and scarier tributes around us. But I pulled him out of the dark place he was stuck in, and I'm happy with that.

I try to avoid subjects that might remind him remotely of home, or of what just transpired in the Gamemakers' session.

But inevitably, the subject gears towards the stuff we like.

"I've had a rat, Trinity, back home," Scout muses quietly, hugging his waist again.

"I don't know, rats never struck me as a pet animal," I grimace at the thought. We had plenty of rats around in our house before we moved, and the last thing I would think of doing is adopting one for companionship.

"No, you don't understand, she's gentle and sweet, except to the people she doesn't like. Then she's _aggressive_," he warns me, miming her little teeth snapping together. I shudder at the thought of contracting god-knows-what-mutated disease from a rat, but I keep that to myself.

After his own session, Roizer from District 6 approaches us, eyeing me wearily. Both Scout and I grin at him in synchrony.

"This is Cassie, from Three," Scout introduces me, and I wave at Roizer. "He's really nice!"

Roizer opts to sit next to Scout, without saying anything. He looks deflated.

"How was your session?" I ask dumbly. While Scout jumped on the opportunity to talk with anyone who looked kindly his way, Roizer seems more reserved.

"Bad… it was… pretty c-crap," Roizer mumbles slowly, as though forcing each word out is a pain.

"That's _okay_, so was mine, and so was Cassie's!" Scout exclaims loudly, momentarily cutting through the louder discussion between the Careers. I venture a glance at them, and see Orla eyeing us with the most condescending look I've ever seen a person wear on their face.

And this is coming from someone from the same district as Salamandra fucking Mitch!

"Wow, your district partner seems like a treat," I whisper, and Scout frowns.

"She's really _mean_ honestly. She keeps calling me Shrimpie, even though I did nothing wrong to her!"

It's Roizer's turn to chime in, and I'm surprised by the acerbic quality of his voice. I didn't think he was capable of it.

"I know … a lot of people like… her. She's- she's the worst k-kind of people. Don't even… pay attention. You're t-t-ten times better than … her anyways."

His hands twitch at his side as he speaks, I note. He's known bullies in his life, very intimately perhaps.

"Yeah, you know _what_, shrimps are cool and nutritious and you are too," I add, "not nutritious! I promise I'm not a cannibal… I meant the cool part though." I hastily save face as both younger boys stare at me with a weird look in their eyes.

"I know I'm weird," I sigh, putting my face in my hands, but a sound causes me to look up sharply in surprise.

Roizer's chuckle turns into a full-on hearty laugh, and he keeps going until both Scout and I join in.

"You're – you're pretty c-cool too," he manages once he finishes laughing.

And just like that, the initial reticence and animosity is gone.

I learn that Roizer shares my deep-seated doubt towards Scout's questionable pet choices, and that Scout thinks very highly of Roizer's stories.

After Morgana finishes her session and joins the Careers, I start getting antsy.

"My ally is going in after the next person," I tell my newfound friends.

"Who is it?" Scout asks curiously.

"it's Bex, Bexley, from Eight?" I venture, and see recognition in both boys' eyes. "She's nice, you'll probably meet her when she comes here!"

In barely fifteen minutes-time, Bex barges through the doors, her signature angry walk I've learned to recognise in full swing. She pointedly ignores the two boys I'm sitting with and crosses to the corner of the room, beckoning me to come to her.

On second thought, maybe they won't meet her right this instant.

"I'll go now, but we'll definitely talk again," I promise the boys quickly as I get up. I really like them, but the fact is Bex is my ally and my first friend here, so I have to talk it out with her first.

And as much as I want to make this work, I infer that right now may not be the perfect time to bring this up.

I wave at the boys from where we sit.

"It was a shitshow," Bex says before I can even ask. I reassure her it was the same for me.

I mean, the _only_ people who don't look like they just royally screwed up _are the crazy ones_.

"On the bright side, I've got a plan," I start mysteriously.

Not a plan Bex is going to be on board with at first, but I'm sure she'll come around.

My foot taps impatiently on the ground from the excitement of adding members to our alliance, and when Bex stares at me with a big question mark the size of the Presidential Mansion in her eyes, I just wink at her cheekily. With both eyes, because I still haven't figured out for the life of me how people are supposed to do it one-eyed, but… Bex gets the message.

We've got lots of stuff to talk about.

Not here, because I don't know exactly how I'm going to explain the two young boys I befriended while she left me alone for an hour.

But as I said, I'm sure she'll come around, I'm sure of it.

* * *

**Andrew Vickens  
****District 5 Male, 18**

* * *

They finally let us go, after everyone finishes up showing off their skills, or crying or just wasting the Gamemakers' time. Not gonna lie, I was in the latter category, and it was pretty funny.

The weird thing is that as sad as I felt on the train, I didn't feel much of anything as they called my name to evaluate my skills in front of the Gamemakers panel.

The fact that I talked with Mara, that I trained with her and that we've slowly been mending our friendship in our own weird way convinced me that it's going to be alright, in the end.

I don't need the Gamemakers' validation to feel whole again.

"So, the scores are coming up tonight and then you guys have a full day tomorrow to prepare for your interviews. I know last year they really asked some hard-hitting questions."

Triss launches himself into the retelling of his own interviews, recalling them in great detail.

I settle myself next to Mara, the same way we've done it for the few past days.

"What did you guys do in your sessions? If you don't mind sharing with me, since that might give me a better idea on what to help you with for the interviews," Triss finishes off, leaning slightly forward from the way his voice sounds incrementally closer.

I lean in instinctively as well, while Mara pushes back, pulling her legs up to her chest. It's always so guarded, with her.

"Nothin' much, just kinda threw stuff at targets," Mara mumbles into her shirt.

"That's a lot more than what most tributes do!" Triss exclaims in response and starts scribbling something on the paper he apparently has in front of him. The scratch of the graphite pencil is a comforting sound to my ears, reminding me of the times I'd sit in my father's office as he wrote inventories for his shop.

"Did you feel like you did well?" I ask, genuinely curious. I always knew she had a knack for precision. Even as kids, she was very quick on her feet and deadly accurate.

"I don't know, I guess?" she ventures, uncertain. "I kinda got the targets with the knives, and didn't do so well with the hatchets, but I made it up by fighting one of the trainers."

"Damn so you actually kicked their ass, that's impressive," I whistle.

She whips her head at me with such aggressive resolve that I can picture it in my mind.

"No, actually it was really _hard_ and I felt terrible because I think I shattered their nose while we were grappling on the ground, thanks for asking."

Ah, that's the Mara I know. The one who is capable of simultaneously shattering a trained professional's nose and being riddled with guilt about it, even though these people literally selected us to die.

Triss immediately senses the tension and changes topic.

"How about you Andy?"

I shrug. There was really not much to it.

"I kinda showed up there, told a few jokes, showed them how I'd theoretically start a fire, freaked out about said fire because… PTSD and shit, and then I told them if they didn't let Mara win I'd die but like… not dramatically."

Judging from the silence from both Triss and Mara, I guess I've misjudged how poorly my joke would land.

A few moments later, Triss clears his throat.

"And did they take that well?"

"From the few chuckles I got, I'd say they appreciated my honesty. I'd even say… they were blinded by surprise," I mutter under my breath.

I'm swatted in the arm my Mara as Triss sighs exasperatedly.

"I'm just kidding, guys," I relent, smiling and sitting back. "It was as well as a session meant to show off your skills could go for a guy like me."

"Alright, well either way, we need to get a head's start on interview prep. If you guys aren't too tired, I'd suggest we go over together on a few suggestions I jotted down here," Triss starts up again, suddenly reinvigorated.

I can tell he's getting stressed out.

He's hiding it well, but you can't hide that shit from a blind person, as cliché as it sounds. I can _hear_ it in his voice. I can tell that training us, supervising our every move is taking a toll on him.

It's his first year in the game, after all.

My heart aches for him, a little bit because if Mara doesn't survive, we'll be his first failures.

I imagine that shit stains your conscience for a long time.

A childishly selfish part of me is almost happy about being his first, because I know that someone, apart from my parents, won't be unscathed once I die.

I nod at Triss as he continues on, and I can hear Mara sigh unhappily next to me, but she leans in nonetheless to see what he's going on about.

"My gut feeling is telling me that Mara's going to go for the unapproachable cold female tribute. It's a classic trope, and a lot of really successful tributes go for it."

"I'm not –" Mara starts objecting, just before she's cut off by Triss.

"I know Mara. But I've talked to people who know about this a lot more than I do, and that's the advice they gave me."

Triss softens a little bit, reaching out to touch both our hands. I grasp Mara's free hand, so that we all hold each other, stuck in this weird triangle of misery and confusion.

"I know this really sucks, guys. But you need to understand that _this_, this is the stuff that sends the sharks into a frenzy," Triss elaborates, his voice taking on a sad tinge.

"We need to do this, to survive," I utter, barely moving my lips.

"Mara, we'll do fine, it doesn't have to be real," I continue, turning to my friend. I squeeze her hand for emphasis.

"Remember those stupid improvisation classes with Mrs. Tonya, before they cut the funding for the school?"

The amused intake of air from Mara's part is all I need to know she remembers all too well.

"That's literally all we need to do. It won't be real, and we won't be real on that stage. Just imagine a bunch of Mrs. Tonya's in the audience, and you're just acting out of your ass to get a passing grade."

"Fine," Mara acquiesces, and I feel her squeeze back.

Triss chimes in. "At least you guys had Mrs. Tonya. I had Mr. Enaquod!"

We both laugh as Triss retracts his hand from mine, imitating the distinct way the old professor used to gesticulate, no doubt.

"The guy is literally the reason I became a compulsive liar in the first place, bless his rotten soul!"

We all dissolve into half-hearted laughter, remembering our old school, our old memories.

It's weird to think how we all used to go to the same vile school, with its awful teachers and cancer-causing asbestos hanging from the ceiling. Its particles rained on us as we unknowingly threw objects at it to dislodge it, like the stupid shits that we were.

We didn't even know we were being poisoned and the authorities never even tried warning us about it, let alone do anything to remove it. And now Triss is here, a Victor of his own Games, having killed and betrayed to get where he is today. And we're on the other side, fully committing to do the same heinous acts or worse, in order to survive.

That's what is wrong with this entire goddamn country. You can try your best, abide by the rules and still end up fucked over because the ones in charge don't give a rat's ass about your life.

In the middle of our conversation, I realize something completely random. At first it makes me kind-of sad, but then I realize it could be useful, if we're talking sponsors.

"Hey guys, guess what?" I ask.

"What?" Triss asks, slightly breathless from his passionate rant that he kept at, with Mara.

"I realized it's my birthday in three days."

* * *

_Notes: I'm back guys! After an incredibly stressful month of February, I'm diving right back into the story. Say a huge thank you to twistedservice that convinced me to actually FINISH four POVs instead of caving in and publishing only two POVs. I thought you guys deserved some kind of update and I didn't want to keep you all waiting for too much longer, so here's a chapter of potentially-questionable quality. _

_Hope you enjoyed this! Happy Leap Year February 29th my beauties!_

_Peace and love. _


	34. Chapter 30: The Scores

**The Scores**

* * *

**Tyree  
****District 11 Male, 12**

* * *

Herbert is my best friend. Herbert is my only friend.

I'm convinced of that now, because they forced me to go in front of other people, and that was really mean of them! I haven't been this nervous ever, I think.

I pass a hand through my short hair, scratching and scratching until it feels like my scalp is on fire. Maybe that's how these characters from the cartoons feel. The ones that have fire instead of hair, they're … superheroes.

They're all so cute!

I hug Herbert, biting his ear on reflex. It's really comforting to have him with me.

I knead the soft material of his belly with my fingers. I've seen cats do that, on television. It's always the babies that do it, because they've been separated from their… _moms_. And they feel lonely. That's what helps them be happy again.. that's what the lady said on the television, so it must be true.

Speaking of happy... I tried being nice to Casmir, but it just. It didn't work out. He's not a happy person.

He's not like Daddy at all. It's really confusing, and I don't know what I have to do.

He asked me so many questions, but I'm not really used to talking that much so I stayed quiet.

_Did I have any friends back at my house_, or _if I saw any other kids around Daddy_, and like… of course not! I was Daddy's favorite. I was the only one, because I was lucky!

Always stuff like that, he kept asking me. I complained to Herbert about it later, because I don't really like the way he asked them. It wasn't really fair of him.

I hear a knock on the door, and a tiny squeak as it opens. Like a mouse.

"Tyree, darling, do you want to come eat with us?"

It's Elora, the weird-looking colorful lady.

I blush immediately, because I'm not really used to talking to ladies.

I shake my head. I don't want to eat. I have been eating too much these days… too much.

It was never like that with Dad-

"Aw come on, darling, you need to eat something. Tell you what… if you eat, we can watch cartoons together. Would you like that?"

The lady might be a mind reader! I'm telling you.

How did she know I'd like to watch cartoons? I mean, _of course_ I would. But Casmir would never let me, on the big television in the room where we eat. They always have weird stuff playing there… and the lady called Jessamine keeps watching it with Casmir. They have such long discussions sometimes, it drives me crazy.

Once, I'm not even joking: I left the room, played with Herbert and then when I came back, boom! They're still there, talking about the same stuff.

I laugh a little bit at the memory, and Elora approaches me, clearly picking up on my good mood.

"You like that idea? Come on, let's go give it a try! I promise the food is great."

I take Elora's hand, which tenses up under mine, and we walk together.

"Are you a mommy?" I ask her, as we're walking down the hall.

She sighs, and I get scared for a second that I said something wrong. Not again!

"Yeah, I am actually. I have a little boy, exactly your age, and a girl who is four years old."

"They must be very beautiful," I reply, pointing at her hair. "Do they have the same hair color as you?"

"Thank you Tyree, darling," Elora says, and pats me on the head before quickly retracting her hand when I tense up. She didn't answer my question though. I pat my own head, feeling out my curly dark hair.

"You're not my mommy though, right?" I ask curiously. I don't know, maybe she is! That's the weird thing with mommies… it's that you don't know.

"No honey, but we can still watch cartoons together," Elora assures me.

She's sad, I can tell it from her voice.

She lets go of my hand momentarily, to make me a plate with some food. My stomach gurgles, and I tell it to stop. It's not polite, to do that.

I observe her, as she fusses around the table, pink strands of hair obstructing her eyes from me. That's what mommies are supposed to be like.

"Is the lady watching television with Casmir again?"

"Yes, your district partner Jess is with Casmir. They're discussing Games' stuff." She pauses. "Do you know what the Games are? Why you're both here?"

I think she's trying to tell me something. Her voice is hesitant, unsure. I don't answer her.

Elora sits down on the couch, with her legs crossed and I scurry towards her, because her question makes me stressed.

I don't know. I don't want to know, so I ignore that.

If I ignore it, it'll go away.

"Are you sad because of me?"

I try to sit on her lap, but Elora squeaks a little.

"Tyree, I'm _sorry_, can you please go sit there?"

She points to the other side of the couch, shifting uncomfortably behind me. She still didn't answer my question.

I try to sit again, because I don't really understand what she means.

"Tyree, you can't just sit on people, you're twelve, not five!"

"I always used to sit on Daddy," I muse as I sit down elsewhere, scratching my chin and dangling my feet off the couch.

Elora makes another sad little choked noise, and takes my hand.

"Tyree, darling, whoever hurt you is going to pay for what they did, but you're safe here."

I'm so lost, and again I suddenly want to cry so much that my lower lip starts shaking.

"Don't cry honey, here, here, what's your favorite channel?"

She's fussing again, reaching out for a napkin, but I don't need one because I don't actually cry, even though I come close.

"Do you want to watch the one with the cats?"

I nod, sniffling a little bit.

Elora is definitely a mind reader, because she finds the channel almost immediately, and we both sit together. I keep my eyes on the screen, because I don't want to miss a single thing. I love cartoons so much!

And I also don't want to accidentally see Elora looking at me, with her big sad eyes.

No sadness allowed, for Herbert and I.

* * *

**Orla Ferraris  
****District 4 Female, 17**

* * *

Shrimpie and Mags are already seated on the couch.

She ruffles his hair in a motherly gesture, and he giggles.

"What's so funny?" I ask, a little bitterly. I still haven't gotten around to liking Mags enough. She's been nothing but belligerent, ever since I met her. That's crazy, considering I'm in the Career alliance and I've played this whole thing by the book, so to speak.

She probably just sucks as a mentor, and that's the end of it. I mean, deciding to help out Shrimpie, rather than spending time with me? Yeah… as I said, something's not right in her head.

"Oh, nothing much," Mags says, smiling all the while.

"I might have a chance to ally with the older girl, the one from Eight," Shrimpie gushes, and I laugh in earnest.

"Wow, you really think that's gonna be your saving grace, Shrimpie?"

"His name is Scout. Do you really have to be so nasty to him?" Mags asks me, and I perceive venom seeping into her voice. "He didn't have to tell you this, you know."

"Whatever," I answer, rolling my eyes. I sit on the couch without another word.

The television bursts to life, and I lean in excitedly, some of my cool demeanor disappearing momentarily.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome! Everyone, _welcome_ to the most exciting news since the Reaping! Shortly, we will be announcing the scores achieved by this year's cohort of fantastic tributes! Let's give them all a huge round of applause!"

I smile at the screen. The announcer is doing a great job hyping this up. Even I feel the little bursts of nervous energy going through my body, although I don't have much to worry about.

"Let's begin with District 1! Ambrox Linden kicks off the night in style with a stupendous 11! And Cira Dupont, not doing too bad herself with a 9!"

It seems as though the television screen vibrates from the noise that erupts from the audience. I can't even tell if it's pre-recorded, or if my allies really did elicit such an intense response.

Ambrox might be an asshole, but he's clearly decent enough.

I inspect my cuticles, as Mags writes stuff down on her decrepit-looking sketchpad.

"Your allies are starting out strong," she comments neutrally, without bringing her eyes up from her writing. "Ambrox is the one who doesn't seem to agree with you on many things, you better look out for him."

"Up next, Luther Szeto and Seeva Andino from District 2! Both enter the stage with matching scores of 10! Absolutely breathtaking!"

Not bad either. I kind of hoped Seeva would get an 11, to match Ambrox's score. I don't want him peacocking himself all around. But no matter, I guess I'll have to pick up the slack where she clearly couldn't.

_Strange_, because I pegged her as our de-facto leader. I wouldn't want to be leader, because I know they're the first ones to get killed.

"District 3 is represented by Cassius Fleur who got a 4, and their volunteer Salamandra Mitch with an 8! Impressive."

I scowl. The girl just keeps on fucking up my vibe.

Her cocky expression on the screen makes me even angrier.

Did she really have to volunteer the year that I did?

She just keeps stealing my goddamn thunder, the dumb bitch. I grind my teeth silently together, and make fists with my hands to release some pressure. I'm up next, and even though Three's score wasn't great, it just would have made a bigger impact if she had truly and utterly screwed up.

"For District 4, there's our favorite Scout Trrrrrinian, with a Trrrree, excuse me, 2…"

I smirk at Shrimpie who is cowering on the other side of Mags, momentarily forgetting the District 3 girl.

"… and Orla Ferraris with a score of 4. Lagging a little behind this year, aren't we, District 4?"

What the _fuck_?

The actual fuck?

For the first time since I came to the Capitol, I feel like I'm misunderstanding something terribly important.

I … I punched the dummy, just like I did with Tanisha back home. It hurt my wrist, but I still did it, multiple times.

I did so many things that showed off what I was good at, and what I had learned throughout training. The only thing I didn't do was climb stuff, but that's for useless and boring people. I was supposed to score so much higher. Like… at least a 9? What is going on? This must be an elaborate joke.

I scored the same as that boy from Three, and he's tiny. Nothing makes any sense.

Mags stifles a laugh, and that's what sets me off.

"What's so fucking funny?" I whip around to face her. I feel my face heating up from righteous anger.

"First off, don't talk to me that way, I'm your mentor. And secondly, I'm not laughing," Mags blabbers, a smile very clearly tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"You're a disrespectful asshole, and … and you've done nothing to HELP ME!" I scream, finally letting the simmering rage come to the surface.

Instead of knowing her place, Mags starts chuckling, unrestrained.

"_I'm_ the disrespectful one?_ You've_ done nothing but intimidate Scout, and refused to listen to my advice. If you don't understand that it's a matter of life and death here, it's too late for you. Your score won't change the fact that you're up shit's creek without a paddle Orla, and your abysmal score won't help you."

Honestly, screw this to hell. I'm not listening to another second of this bullshit.

Without a word, I throw the glass of water that is in front of me on the floor.

The shatter is satisfying, the glass offering no resistance as it disintegrates into hundreds of tiny crystalline pieces, floating in the thin sheet of transparent liquid. The shards scatter on the ground, and I eye them with disdain for a second, before sauntering off to my room.

These assholes can clean up that mess if they want to, or they can cut themselves for all I care.

I slam the door to my room, and jump into bed. My frustrated screams are muffled by the fluffy pillow that is jammed in front of my face. I just need to let out all of this indignation and fury, because it's making my head throb and hurt like some kind of pulsating angry machine.

I hammer my fists into the pillows around me, continuing to scream wordlessly.

I don't understand how anyone in their right mind would give me a 4. A fucking 4!

It's like they don't _understand_ why I'm here. I never thought that Capitol people could be this _dumb_, but I guess people are no different, anywhere you go.

The majority will always be disgusting hypocrites.

It's as though they're _oblivious_ to the fact that I'm one of their own, and I _volunteered_ for this. What kind of absolute moron gives a volunteer a 4?

Abruptly, I stop screaming, because an idea hits me. I understand something… it's a freaking conspiracy.

That must be it. They probably gave me that score because they didn't want me to be a prime target. That's… that's the only reasonable explanation.

Now that I think back, many people who scored very poorly actually won their games. Maybe it's a way for the Gamemakers to keep us out of sight, out of mind. Just before we pounce on Victory, like the lions that we are.

That… makes sense. Still, I wish they had warned me. I breathe a little easier, now that things are back in place.

I flip onto my back, and get up from the bed. I'm glad that I'm a little calmer now, no longer shaking from outrage.

As I approach the mirror, I see my hair is a mess, from the way I thrashed in anger in the bed.

So, I brush it. It's back to being straight and sleek in mere minutes, like black curtains framing my pale face. A face so similar to my mother's. I take out the photograph, crinkled only a little bit from staying in my pocket all day.

I smoothen it out, and get the holopad that I requested for this specific purpose.

Regardless of my score, the Games are only secondary to my real mission here: to find out about my real parents. The Games themselves are just an obstacle to coming back here and seeing whether my parents had any family left…

I've read at least a dozen files on missing Capitol persons, who were in the army.

I skimmed through them, more like. So far, no pictures of my real mom and dad. I just have to keep looking.

"Officer General, Capitol 260704," I intonate, having memorized that inscription ever since I found it, in case my photograph went missing.

"Where are you Officer General? Where are you, mom?"

* * *

**Logan Arteficavitch  
****District 7 Male, 15**

* * *

We agglomerate all together at the front door of the District 8 common lounge.

They don't have a mentor, so no one really told us we _couldn't_, per say.

I asked Suhndit and she gave me the green light, so as far as I'm concerned, there's no harm done. I think she saw how nervous I was about the score reveal and she had her hands full with Morgana already.

"Are you even allowed to do that?" the one and only Bexley Ward scoffs as I enter with Geoff in tow when Jean lets us in, nervous excitement coming off of him in waves. I've steered clear of her, because the girl just exudes this menacing energy on a regular basis. Right now, she looks positively pissed off.

I panic and my mouth opens and closes, as I try to figure out just how we're supposed to explain this whole get-up.

"It's okay guys," Jean ushers us in despite his district partner's disapproving glare. "Bexley doesn't mind, and Lucretia told me it was _fine_. My house is your house, y'know."

Bexley seems to mind a whole lot, but doesn't do anything apart from crossing her arms across her chest. She doesn't sit with us as we all gravitate towards the couch.

Lucretia, the escort for District 8, comes in smiling meekly at us, and then at Jean. "I can get you fellows chips or something!"

Jean beams at her. "Thanks Lucretia! You're amazing."

She scurries away, no doubt searching for the closest Avox to get us finger food to enjoy as we're watching our scores displayed across all of Panem. Not that I can eat much of anything right now…

To be completely truthful, my stomach is doing the most complex acrobatics and flips and my heart feels like it's going to escape its ribcage prison. I am _so_ nervous, almost more so than when I was actually performing in front of the Gamemakers.

I'm worried I'll have the worst score out of the three of us, and my allies will realize they don't need me on their side to win. I know I shouldn't be thinking that way, but the thought has been slowly eating away at my sanity. Being alone… I don't think that's something I could live with.

And I know, objectively, that our alliance isn't like that. The two of them are my _friends_ and it would never go that way, but a small insidious and ever-nagging part of me keeps whispering at the back of my mind… _what if_?

What would I do, alone and abandoned?

I just wish I could talk to Dahlia right now. My sister always knew how to spin a shitty situation into something advantageous. How would she spin this?

"Guys... guys, it's already started, come on!"

Lucretia hurries in, balancing three bowls with chips of different flavors in her arms. I quickly get up to help her, and she smiles brightly at me as I grab two of the bowls and give them to Geoff and Jean.

"Can I stay with you guys, to watch?" she asks timidly.

I smile encouragingly at her.

"Of course, the more the merrier!"

Bexley huffs, leaving the room. Clearly, someone is in disagreement with that statement.

"Please don't leave me to die, if I get the worst score," I murmur half-jokingly, but Geoff immediately picks up on my unease.

"Okay, first off, no matter our scores, we stick together."

I smile sadly. "I know that, but I'm just… I hope you guys still include me even if I suck."

"The scores don't matter Logan," Jean offers, supportively.

"But they kinda do… and I hope you guys can look past that."

Both Jean and Geoff roll their eyes good-naturedly at my self-doubt and I smile at them, trying to force the negativity out before it does any damage.

Jean puts up the volume on the television as they just finish announcing the scores for District 3. I make a mental note to relisten to the first bit that we missed, since it might give us some precious insight on who we're up against.

I almost bring it up, but judging from the intensity in both my allies' faces, they want to see their scores first. There's no harm in analyzing the competition later.

"For District 4, there's our favorite Scout Trrrrrinian, with a Trrrree, excuse me, 2, and Orla Ferraris with a score of 4. Lagging a little behind this year, aren't we, District 4?"

"They're not doing too hot," Geoff agrees, scratching the back of his head.

"The girl isn't super nice, but the kid… this sucks," I agree, as Jean nods. He just seems so small and withdrawn on the picture that pops up on the television.

"District 5 brings us Andrew Vickens, with a 2, and Mara Griffith who did much better with a 7! Congratulations to Mara, I think she holds the record for the scores in District 5, so far, surpassing their last year's victor."

"Imagine living in a district where 7 is your highest score…" Jean mutters, and I nod absentmindedly. From training, I remember the two District Fives staying together. The girl is definitely a contender, but who knows how far she'll go to protect her ally.

"For District 6, we have Roizer Loudon… with a 5, another welcome surprise! And Daisy Jackson, with a 4!"

Pre-recorded thunderous applause erupts again from the screen as two pictures, one of the boy and one of the girl, appear side by side with their scores.

"Not the strongest, but definitely respectable, for one of the younger district pairings, am I right?" the announcer gushes, white teeth glistening on-screen.

"It's _us_, soon!" Jean whispers loudly, stuffing a particularly orange-looking chip into his mouth. My stomach churns, and I feel like I'm about to vomit. I'm gonna suck so bad…

"Next, our darlings from District 7… give it up for Logan Arteficavitch, packing a punch with a 6! And Morgana Foster with a 9! Stellar results, especially for their age and district, I mean, absolutely stellar!"

My jaw drops. The sound is muted in my ears as the announcer comments on both mine and Morgana's performances, and I can barely feel the claps of my allies on my back. I didn't even dream of getting a freaking 6! I mean… it's not perfect, but it's miles better than what I ever thought I'd deserve. I rub my eyes with my knuckles, unable to stem the genuine smile that spreads across my face.

A freaking 6!

"Following, we have District 8's Jean Taylor, with a 4 and Bexley Ward, with a 6. I personally expected a little bit more from these two, but that doesn't mean they're out of the competition yet!"

Still reeling from my success, I chance a look at Jean, who is trying his best to hide the disappointment that spread across his features. I look back down, because I don't want to embarrass him.

"District 9 offers another slightly disappointing result, with 5 allocated to the volunteer Geoff Windsor and a 3 given to Mona Tillery!"

Geoff shifts next to me, sticking out his tongue at the man on-screen.

"Well at least I don't disappoint my wife in bed every night," he mimics with a pretentious Capitolite accent right back at the announcer, who has moved on to District 10.

I chuckle quietly to myself.

And I realize something _important_. I actually…

"You got the highest score out of the three of us!" Geoff announces with enthusiasm, clapping me on the shoulder. "Congrats, man!"

"That was a bit weird," I admit, blushing, but he laughs at my modesty. I hook my thumbs together, trying to relieve the pressure that has spread to my hands. It's always something that happens when I'm stressed, but I… I actually did _well_.

"Nonsense, that's awesome! Bask in the glory dude, you're the most competent out of the three of us."

I risk a quick glance at Jean again, and see him pointedly staring at the floor.

He raises his eyes at me, and I'm taken aback by the visible animosity in his gaze that he gets under control almost immediately.

"These scores mean nothing anyways," I try to de-escalate the situation, my cheeks heating up.

Secretly, I am happy that I was able to show my allies that I'm not worthless. These scores mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but they mean something to _me_. I hope Dahlia and Damon are watching. I hope they realise how much they have taught me.

Damon swinging his axe, the satisfying thud the axe made as it embedded itself into the oaks native to District 7, showing me his technique and nurturing my love for learning… it's all important. Suddenly I'm overtaken by a wave of uncontainable love for the people that raised me. I hope they know that.

"What did you end up doing in your session to get that?" Geoff asks, putting up his feet on the small coffee table in front of the couch. I'm acutely aware of Jean jutting out his chin at the periphery of my vision.

"Not much," I shrug, and Jean snorts next to me.

"Well, your 'not much' is better than our best, so better _spill the beans,_ partner."

Once again, the hostility in his tone makes me turn around and look him in the eyes in earnest. He isn't taking this really well, and for once, something akin to annoyance momentarily fleets across my mind, like a sparrow flying through your field of vision on a sunny day. It's just a second, but you still notice it.

Jean keeps going.

"Well, you're the one who kept going on and on about how you'd feel like shit if you got the lowest score, but now you just conveniently forget that. How do you think that makes me feel?"

I gawk at this question, my mouth opening and closing uselessly for the second time today.

After a few moments I gather myself.

"Look Jean, I'm sorry you're upset about your score."

"I'm not _upset_."

He's facing me now, a little bent over his bowl of chips, but staring directly at me.

The seconds that stretch afterwards feel like an eternity, but I keep my eyes on my ally.

Jean deflates after our stare-down, which results in him lowering his eyes in shame. "It's fine, I'm just stressed out. I'm really happy for you Logan."

I want to explain to him that I didn't get the highest score _on purpose_, but I also know it might not be the right thing to do, now. Another part of me argues that I shouldn't be justifying myself to him at all.

Why should I be justifying myself to him, if he's the one who didn't do well?

It just feels weird right now, that's all.

I hope that weirdness goes away.

* * *

**Sparkle Aire  
****District 12 Female, 18**

* * *

I need another smoke.

I can't seem to find one, conveniently.

All of this garbage just got me all worked up, and I'm actually worried about Daisy.

I turn on the television again, my nails dragging up and down my palm in an effort to calm the animosity that will bubble over at any instant.

I need a _fucking_ cigarette.

I missed the announcement, in my quest to find anyone who could help me with my predicament, but it's as though all Capitol personnel has magically disappeared. Like little scurrying rats, burrowing themselves in their tiny holes to watch our sorry asses displayed on national television.

Like… how hard is it to find a decent smoke in the Capitol?!

You'd think they would have these things lying around for us to take. Kills us district scum faster. Like, fuck, if I want to die from lung cancer, just give me my damn cigarette and let's get this charade over with!

I say it out loud, just for good measure. The empty room doesn't grant my wish instantaneously, so I mentally proclaim this a failure, and try to move on with my life.

_You don't always get what you want, Sparkle. _

_Actually, scratch that, you never do, so might as well get used to it. _

I flip my hair indignantly, just to punctuate the point to no one in particular.

Two of my fellow contenders appear on-screen.

"Valentino Ricci and Aderyn Klossner from District 10 earned themselves a 7 and a 4, respectively! Well done, tributes!"

The announcer babbles on about how attractive the pair from 10 are, which makes me want to gag. The girl looks barely fifteen, and it makes me physically ill to think of the way these assholes objectify us.

It's been happening all my life, but I'm used to it.

With absolute revulsion, I think about how _their_ parents must feel, dehumanized and stained, when they hear these commentaries on television. Their children's images forever tarnished with these vile comments that mean nothing to these monsters… at least my family is dead, and they don't get dragged through this shit.

They don't deserve this…

"Second to last, District 11 brings us… Tyree… what's that Eliza? Oh, our tribute mononymously known as Tyree scored a measly 1! That's a bummer! And Jessamine Law does decently with a 5!"

I squint at the little boy on-screen. Tyree.

Weird little fellow in training, and I'm guessing his peculiarity did _not_ strike a chord with the Gamemakers.

Pity.

_I'm next on the chopping block, _I think humorlessly.

"From District 12, Abel Collingwood finishes off the male tributes line-up with a 6, and Sparkle Aire scores a 5!"

I smirk, even though there's nobody to judge me.

Wow, well if all it takes is to wiggle my butt around suggestively, twirl a spiky baton and smash a few things around me to get a 5…

The entire line-up is visible now. All of the scores are displayed on the screen again with the announcers trilling on and on about some particularly spicy gossip. My eyes naturally gravitate towards Cira Dupont. A 9, for her.

Maybe my competition is weaker than I thought.

I think about it for a second.

I wonder just how these scores work. Just _imagine_ if it's all purely proportional… you double the effort to get a 10, like those assholes from the Career districts. Or that bitch from One who couldn't even manage to get twice as high as I did.

I know for a fact that she worked her ass off, while for me, it's always been a big fat fucking joke.

They all probably trained for this since they were toddlers. Must be disappointing.

If you ask me… absolute losers, the lot of them.

Although they've practiced and worked their asses off, our differences are what… 4, 5 points? That difference is certainly not what's going to end me… it just seems so absurd.

They'll still die in the end, same as me. Same as little Tyree who got a 1. It's all wishful thinking, but it still makes me feel better.

Who will care, in the end?

I'm no expert at these Games, but deep down I know that's not how the rankings work. The effort to get a better score is exponential the higher you go, or some equally bullshit algorithm I couldn't hope to comprehend. So I'm just kidding myself, and these 4 or 5 points of difference will maybe end up biting me in the ass.

Or maybe...maybe they just slap a number on you because they feel like it, to screw with your head.

Whatever their way of judging us is, it still makes me happy to think that _on paper_, the golden boys and girls of these games could barely manage to get twice the score that I got. And I did it all with a thumb up my ass, metaphorically speaking.

Twelve, maybe thirteen people got the same score as me, or lower. And I know for a fact that I'm smarter and a better survivor than most of them, anyways.

That's… that's pretty good odds. And Daisy got the same score as I did.

I'm actually surprised by that. I'm proud of her.

She was scared shitless, and I thought she was going to collapse in there, and start crying. But she didn't.

That means something. Either my absolute shipwreck of a pep-talk worked, or she has inner strength I hadn't noticed before. Either way, we're together, and it's fitting we both got identical scores.

Even though she probably tried her best while absolutely terrified and I couldn't give less of a shit if I wanted to. Semantics, am I right?

I keep scratching at my palms, getting frustrated by the very distinct lack of cigarette in my hand, just as Abel walks in.

I lazily turn towards, him, and am surprised to see him extend his hand.

"What? _Now,_ you need some comfort?" I pout at him, extending my bangle-adorned wrist dramatically towards his hand. He didn't want anything to do with me during training, and I'm surprised he even decided to approach me now.

"Don't be stupid," he huffs, dropping a solitary cigarette in my outstretched palm.

"You heard me," I say, stating a fact rather than asking the question. Has he been lurking around all this time?

"Yeah, you were railing about it pretty insistently," he mutters under his breath, ready to retreat back again.

"Wow, fancy vocabulary for a Twelve boy… hey… wait, where did you get it?" I ask, now genuinely curious.

"_Nowhere_, just drop it. Don't make me regret getting it for you," he responds threateningly, turning back to face me. The effect would be intimidating if I didn't know he was an inch shorter than I am, if I stand up.

In my heels, granted… but when am I _not_ in heels, is the real question?

"You know," I start, going over to the scented candle on the coffee table, and prying off the glass encasing with my fingers, "you aren't nearly as mean as you think you are."

I inhale a deep breath, and the familiar swirls of smoke penetrate my lungs.

I feel free again.

I toss my head back, and smile, enjoying the bitter taste in my mouth. This would have rotted my teeth and blackened my gums, but now that I am going to die here, that's never going to happen. It's almost a relief.

"You aren't either," Abel retorts, quietly.

"Well, I guess we're just two losers faking it," I sigh melodramatically, releasing smoke in the stuffy room.

He hums, a sad melancholic noise escaping and circling through the room. I imagine the noise intertwining with the smoke that I release.

I don't know his story and he doesn't know mine, but it's nice to spend that part of the evening, me smoking in silence and him sitting on the couch, his eyes fixed on the carpet.

That is, until the smoke alarm goes off, blaring uncontrollably.

* * *

_Notes: Hey guys! Writing scores was uh... not my favourite, because it's not the most interesting bit to read about but there you have it. Hopefully it was still worth your while, so I'd love to hear any thoughts. Now that that's out of the way, we have the interviews which will be covered by the Gamemakers, and then the night before the games. _

_So, things will be picking up pretty quickly after this. _

_On another note, because of the coronavirus pandemic and yours truly working in a hospital, I get to stay home for a lot of the upcoming 2 weeks since all unnecessary experiments are thereby suspended (so apart for a few little things, I'll be staying at home!). That means that I will probably have a lot more time to write, meaning you will get more content! That's exciting! _

_Here's a summary of the tribute scores, if you ever want to revisit this chapter for that purpose: _

_D1M: Ambrox Linden - 11  
D1F: Cira Dupont - 9 _

_D2M: Luther Szeto - 10  
D2F: Seeva Andino - 10_

_D3M: Cassius Fleur - 4  
D3F: Salamandra Mitch - 8_

_D4M: Scout Trinian - 2  
D4F: Orla Ferraris - 4_

_D5M: Andrew Vickens - 2  
D5F: Mara Griffith - 7_

_D6M: Roizer Loudon - 5  
D6F: Daisy Jackson - 4_

_D7M: Logan Arteficavitch - 6  
D7F: Morgana Foster - 9 _

_D8M: Jean Taylor - 4  
D8F: Bexley Ward - 6 _

_D9M: Geoff Windsor - 5  
D9F: Mona Tillery - 3 _

_D10M: Valentino Ricci - 7  
D10F: Aderyn 'Addie' Klossner - 4_

_D11M: Tyree - 1  
D11F: Jessamine Law - 5_

_D12M: Abel Collingwood - 6  
D12F: Sparkle Aire - 5_

_Stay safe everyone, wash your hands like a madman, and keep smiling. _

_Peace and love. _


	35. Chapter 31: The Interviews

**The Interviews**

* * *

**Cyrellia Willis  
****Second in Command, Gamemaker**

* * *

It's like the wailing never stops.

The baby's…not anyone else's, of course. Cyrellia would never debase herself to the point of mulling over other people's misery. Not anymore.

But right now, her head echoes with the cries of her newborn, even though she's miles away. Cyrellia rubs at her forehead, and sighs tiredly.

Motherhood never ceases to amaze her. At least her husband has been agreeable, as of lately. Not that he has much of a choice… she's a Gamemaker, so she's got a lot on her plate right now. Being safely tucked away at their luxurious apartment with the kids is the least he can do, while she stays up until ungodly hours of the morning, working tirelessly for this whole event to work the way it's supposed to. In a way, these Games are as much her flesh and blood as her own children.

The chatter in the crowd makes the throbbing in her head worse, but she powers through it.

At the same time, the anthem of Panem blares out from the orchestra pit, sweeping over the gigantic theater.

And just like that, the interviews begin in earnest.

Cira Dupont glides with grace in a breathtaking floor-length backless dress of a smoky pink color. The elation is clear on her face, but doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Philostrate D'Amour greets her, his energy hitting seemingly unachievable levels. The show runner had always been a peculiar and eccentric man, but he always kept the attention of the public, and that's what mattered.

Cyrellia rubs at her eyes, wondering how a man like Philostrate can exude that much energy on a constant basis. It must be the fact that he doesn't have any kids.

"Greetings to our first tribute on-stage tonight! Cira Dupont, all the way from our darling District 1."

The applause deafens Cyrellia momentarily, as the girl from One smiles delicately when Philostrate kisses her hand.

They exchange pleasantries, and Cyrellia zones them out, her eyes shifting over to the adjacent booth where Milo is seated, his back straight as a ruler.

"How does it feel to have a lower score than your… _ehm_, if I dare say, more impressive district partner?"

Cira's smile doesn't falter, but Cyrellia catches that beautiful self-doubt, like a hawk. That's why they had given Cira a lower score.

Truth be told, Cira was clearly as skilled as her allies from Two and her own District partner. It's her self-esteem that ultimately tanked her. She deserved a ten, but … how could they pass up an opportunity to feed into her feelings of inadequacy?

Cyrellia was a hunting hound when it came to things like this. Milo had disapproved, silently of course. But she argued that the girl would perform best under these circumstances and that was the end of it.

Either way, it'll create interesting dynamics and drama in the arena, Cyrellia is sure of it.

Philostrate leads Cira to the right edge of the stage, kissing her knuckles once again as she waves at the crowd with the other hand.

Ambrox Linden takes the stage in an elegant black suit, his undershirt the same color as Cira's dress. Clipped to his breast is a beautiful rose of a pale pink.

"My dearest Ambrox! The crowd is absolutely _dying_ to hear your story. Aren't we?"

Ambrox smiles charmingly, winking at the front row. Philostrate doesn't even let the boy speak, before throwing himself into gushing over the District One tribute's score.

"We have an absolute legend on stage tonight, my dear friends! As the highest-scoring tribute in these games, how confident are you about your chances?"

Ambrox leans back, and Cyrellia must take a moment to appreciate the minute precision with which every one of his movements are executed. Jasmyn is one hell of a mentor, she'll give her that.

"Well, Philostrate…"

"Call me Philo, we're all friends here!"

"Philo, you see, I believe that the scores are a great metric, but the more days that pass in the Games, the less they matter. And I am certain that my allies and I will be there for a while. We're in this together. A lot of people seem to gloss over the fact that loyalty means everything to our District, and Cira and I both will do our utmost best to uphold a standard to be proud of."

The boy really is eloquent.

An absolutely compulsive liar, if Cyrellia has ever seen one, but an enticingly eloquent one. She doesn't doubt for a minute that he could slit every single throat in the arena if it meant glory and acceptance.

Seeva Andino walks up on stage, all confidence and quiet accomplishment. She towers over Philostrate, in her platform heels. Her red pantsuit ends mid-calf, showing off the muscles underneath her caramel skin.

Philostrate picks up on her assuredness and decides to mess with it. Cyrellia frowns for a moment; Philostrate might be great at his job, but the way he seems to make the girls' lives harder on purpose… it just rubs her the wrong way.

"If you weren't a tribute in these Games, what would you do?"

The question clearly throws Seeva off from the way she smiles, her lips pursed in thought.

She doesn't rush to an answer, as so many other tributes are wont to do under pressure.

_She is like a tidal wave_, Cyrellia thinks, _or a towering mountain_. Absolutely unshakable.

"I think I'd be a baker," the girl decides on, eliciting laughter from the audience. Smart.

Humor is clearly not the angle she had practiced for, but the pair of Victors from District 2 are good at what they do. Not as good as Jasmyn, with her almost-neurotic attention to detail and knack for a dozen contingency plans. But the people of District 2 play on something else entirely, and it works just as well: honesty. Cyrellia watched intently as Seeva played along with Philostrate, smiling proudly as she left the stage.

"Please welcome Luther Szeto!"

The male volunteer from District 2 stalks up on stage, his strides precise and cutting the air like blades. Cyrellia leans in, despite herself. Athena might not be happy about his volunteering, but Cyrellia is certain he is going to be a god in the arena, if he makes it past the unpredictability of the Bloodbath.

Philostrate decides to zoom in on Luther's personal life, and strangely enough, his exasperation on the fact that he couldn't cut off the skin on his elbow to show his near-immunity to pain. Apparently, that was a running joke, now.

"What do you think of your allies?" Philostrate chimes in, as a final question.

"They're great, actually," Luther answers, candidly. "They're going to make this extra fun, and I'm all for it. Can't wait."

The buzzer sounds, and Luther is replaced by Salamandra Mitch of District 3.

The seventeen-year-old volunteer. She was quite intriguing, if not a little too… savage and emotional for Cyrellia's taste.

"Salamandra, I'm so glad to finally share the floor with you!" Philostrate exclaims, welcoming the lithe and extremely tall girl to sit. Her hair is sleeked upwards, so different from the usual curly chaotic mess she usually has. It's painted silver, just like her dress and lipstick.

"Now, and I'm sure everyone here shares the sentiment… Who is the mystery girl who visited you before you left? Is she your illegitimate daughter? The rumors have been running wild!"

Cyrellia would spend her entire monthly wage to immortalize the scowl that appears on Salamandra's face.

"I mean…"

The entire theater waits with bated breath as Salamandra gathers an appropriate response.

"I guess if you consider someone that you cared for since you were 4 years old, a toddler really, like their own child after they were forcefully cut out of your _own mother_… If that's your twisted fucked-up notion of an illegitimate daughter, then _sure_, that fits the bill quite nicely."

Salamandra takes a breath, leaning forward. Even sitting, her tight-fit dress exacerbates the pointy edges of her hip bones. In that moment, she is wrath itself. Cyrellia turns to Milo, who is frowning at the girl on-stage.

"Like, damn, I should have gotten the notice of _that_ when we repeatedly got stuck in foster care and I was almost separated from her indefinitely, because I wasn't considered her legal guardian!"

The entire crowd is silent.

Salamandra leans back, and the cockiness is back. The anger is still there, but it's under the surface, hidden in an instant under layers of self-assured calm.

"I'm just kidding _guys_, y'all really do love to gossip. It's my little sister Nambie. Hey Nambie! Hope you're good!"

The viewers laugh nervously as Salamandra waves at the self-stabilizing floating cameras.

Cassius Fleur is next, and Cyrellia is disheartened at his outfit.

He hobbles on stage in a bright orange suit, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of thousands of people. He shields his eyes from the glaring lights as Philostrate beckons him forward.

"Would you describe yourself as a stereotypical Three, Cassius?"

The boy is taken aback by the random question, but he recovers fairly quickly. He's funny, Cyrellia realizes. And smart. And extremely awkward.

It's charming in a way, and the crowd actually eats up his stage presence, as quirky and uncomfortable as he looks. He finds a way to weave in a story or two about his family.

"There's Rye, back home, who's rooting for me. Him and my mom."

"We all remember Rye, it was really emotional at the Reaping, wasn't it, folks?" Philostrate sighs dramatically, and a ripple of agreement travels through the crowd.

Cyrellia can see Philostrate itching to ask the questions… _why_ didn't his brother volunteer? Does Cassius feel any inadequacy at the revelation that his own brother wouldn't save him?

But somehow Cassius keeps him off-topic, subtly. It's mesmerizing to see the master of show-hosting be played like this. In that moment, Cyrellia forms the opinion that she likes the boy, contrarily to his District partner.

"Welcome to the stage our lovely Orla Ferraris from District 4!"

Orla's floor-length dress is of a deep green color, in stark contrast with her milk-white skin. Her neck is adorned by an expensive-looking emerald necklace, and the long sleeves of her dress sparkle with sewn-on gemstones. Her almond-shaped eyes are traced with dark green eyeliner which makes them even more expressive than they usually are.

"All of our volunteers have very intimate, and frankly, great reasons to have come here…" Philostrate begins, his tone conspiratorial.

Orla sniffs, like a privileged child that just has been told that they were accepted into a prestigious school. She inspects her nails, while maintaining an austere look of dignified pride.

"Can you please enlighten us with your own reason?"

"Well, Philo, it was a long time coming, and honestly it doesn't help when your crappy parents lie to you your whole life!"

She comes off incredibly childish and off-key, and that does not resonate with the audience.

"It isn't _often_ that tributes trash their own parents on-stage!" Philostrate counters pragmatically, making wild eyes at the audience.

Orla launches herself into an extremely superficial and unnecessarily complicated explanation, to the crowd's dismay. Even from her private balcony, Cyrellia can smell the arrogance coming off of Orla. Undeservedly so, she might add, considering the girl seemed absolutely useless during the Gamemaker's sessions.

Cyrellia specifically instructed Philostrate to poke at this particular pain-point, but unfortunately the buzzer rings before he can cut in. Cyrellia exhales in disappointment that Orla continues talking, even as she is escorted off-stage.

_Talk about being deaf to social cues_, Cyrellia messages Milo on their private line.

_Tell me about it_, he replies almost-instantly, and she catches him rolling his eyes at her in mock-exasperation.

Scout Trinian is brought on stage, and his hands visibly shake from the nerves.

"Anything in particular you'd like to tell us?" the show host prompts, trying to get anything out of the nervous little boy.

"Um… can I talk about my allies, I guess?" Scout ventures. For once, Philostrate doesn't throw unnecessary hurdles at the tribute. Probably because it wouldn't yield any intrigue whatsoever.

"Roizer's really nice. If you ask him, he'll show you his stories! Or ahh…" Scout glances off-stage quickly, "maybe I wasn't supposed to say that, but he's actually really talented. And um, oh Cassie, Cassius from District 3 was really nice to me after my really bad Gamemaker's session."

The crowd laughs, and there's a few ladies that grab at their chests, smitten by the cute boy.

Emboldened by the positive response, Scout continues, "Yeah so now we're just trying to figure everything out, and we'll probably be in an alliance!"

"I understand Cassius, but do you really think someone as old and experienced as Bexley would accept the two of you?" Philostrate asks as the buzzer rings. Scout's lips tremble as he isn't even given the opportunity to answer the question.

"Let's switch it up a little bit, to keep this fresh!"

Philostrate crosses the stage and takes Andrew Vickens from District 5 by the arm. He is dressed in a beautiful marine blue suit, and glitter is dusted over the scarred patterns on his face, giving him an ethereal look.

Without missing a beat, Andrew beams at the audience. Many people scream his name, and even before Philostrate has the opportunity to introduce him, Andrew takes control of the stage.

"Settle down, settle down, you don't have to scream so loud, I'm not deaf, you know!"

The crowd erupts into laughter.

"So, Andrew - "

"Call me Andy, being formal is for Careers and losers," Andrew interrupts. "When Mara comes on, you can go ahead and just call her M, she won't mind I _swear_ on my life."

The cameras pan off-stage on a fuming Mara Griffith for humorous effect, and the crowd wheezes collectively out of laughter.

"_What_, is she scowling at me? I wouldn't know, I can't see shit! And what I can't see won't hurt me, right?" Andy laughs, as he clumsily fails to dodge the mock-attack punches Philostrate throws his way.

Cyrellia finds herself cackling to this boy's strange brand of dark humor.

A friendly back-and-forth ensues between the two men on-stage, and Cyrellia is momentarily transported out of the Hunger Games she helped orchestrate into the kind of comedy sit-com she used to enjoy as a girl. Something like sympathy stirs deep in her chest.

"I wouldn't turn a blind-eye on us just yet," Andrew jokes in his finishing statement as the buzzer goes off.

There's _something_ about this kid, Cyrellia decides.

"Mara Griffith to the forefront of our show, or may I say, M?"

"I highly suggest you don't," Mara replies through gritted teeth, keeping her head high as she approaches the show host.

The temperature in the giant theater feels like it drops ten degrees in a single instant. Everyone is hanging on to her every word.

"Onto more serious things," Philostrate begins, wiping away a fake tear from his right eye.

"We all saw the positive reaction your district had to your Reaping. It was… highly unusual, to say the least. Did District 5 suddenly understand the value of these Games, or was there something else at play?"

Cyrellia sees the girl tense up, her lips forming a straight line on her face. Her heterochrome irises shimmer under the lights.

"I … I caused a lot people to die."

"A murderess in our midst!" Philostrate whispers in shock, as the murmurs pick up in the stunned crowd.

"I'm not a murderess," Mara clarifies mournfully, wringing her hands together before folding them on her lap. Her short black dress shows off her long legs and perilously needlelike high heels. "We're the power district, and … well my dad, he…"

She stops, gathering herself.

"I distracted him at work, and there was a huge disaster at our main powerplant that could have been prevented if he had been paying attention. A lot of people were killed."

Philostrate is at the edge of his seat, seemingly hanging onto every word Mara is saying.

"That's why Andy is the way he is, yes?"

Mara nods, her wards back up. She jerks her hand away as Philostrate tries to comfort her.

"How do you feel about living with the notion that first you crippled him, and then by proxy robbed him of a chance to escape death in the arena?"

Mara remains silent and cold for the rest of the interview even as Philostrate keeps prodding at her personal life, and when the buzzer sounds her heels click with a regularity which indicates that she has practiced this walk multiple times with her mentor.

Cyrellia makes a mental note to congratulate Triss on his tribute training. Things like that must be encouraged, after all.

"Roizer Loudon from District 6 is fortunate to join us tonight!"

The younger boy is dressed up in a black suit and a red tie. He stumbles ahead, towards Philostrate.

As he walks, Cyrellia realizes that he isn't stumbling so much as he's oddly jumping, one leg jerking up a little bit higher than the other. During the Gamemaker's session, he actually displayed remarkable skills in terms of memory and shelter-building, all of which were marred by his constant jerking and odd movements.

"So, kiddo, tell me. What's up with all this jerking?" Philostrate mimics grotesquely the boy in front of him, who becomes red.

Highly inappropriate.

"I-It's… I – I have tics. It's… it's like an i-involuntary hab-b-it," Roizer slowly enunciates, clearly struggling harder than usual due to the huge amount of people in front of him.

"An involuntary habit," the man in front of him echoes, almost mocking.

Cyrellia purses her lips at this. Digging up dirt on tributes and provoking them is one thing. Laughing at disability without the tribute's consent is another. Unacceptable.

What might people suffering from debilitating tics, stutters or Tourette's in the Capitol think?

She jots down a note on her phone, to make sure to mention it to Quill later.

"Scout t-told you ab-about stories I write," Roizer opens up, trying to ignore Philostrate's intimidating gaze. "I wr-wr-write about s-superheroes, and-and I'd l-love to show you all."

The audience grows bored but Roizer soldiers on, and Cyrellia feels relief flooding her entire system as he is replaced by his district partner.

Daisy Jackson takes the stage, her movements sluggish. She is covered from head to toe in fabric that hides her greyish and hole-riddled skin. A strategic move.

It seems as though they caked on makeup by the gallon, onto her face. It has a healthy tint to it, her lips painted a lovely pink, while her hair is elegantly placed on top of her head in an elaborate knot, making it appear to have volume.

"Drama in the Capitol!" The man in front of her announces loudly in the microphone, and the slip of girl flinches away. "I've heard some scandalous things, but nothing as scandalous as… a tribute procuring drugs from an Avox!"

The Capitolites in the crowd boo at Daisy, and her eyes fill with tears.

"I didn't!"

"Oh, that's not the story we've heard, young lady," Philostrate launches himself into a passionate diatribe. "You earned yourself a respectable score of 5, before the Gamemakers realized you were under the influence because of your… peculiar behavior."

"I wasn't -" Daisy starts, before being interrupted.

"Were you aware of the fact that drug trafficking by Avoxes is punishable by death? You must feel pretty lucky, having gotten away with losing only _one_ point on your score, young lady!"

Cyrellia remembered debating that punishment over with the other Gamemakers. They had found the girl's addiction an interesting plot-point to exploit, and one of the younger Gamemakers suggested the idea.

It didn't matter much if she was under the influence or not during her session. They just had to get the conversation started.

"It's my normal behavior," Daisy moans, putting her hands together in supplication. "You have to believe me."

The pathetic interview quickly ends, but the seeds of doubt are sown. Cyrellia is satisfied by the result, throwing a thumbs up at Milo.

* * *

**Milo Zimmermann  
****Games Organization, Design and Analysis (G.O.D.A.) Director, Gamemaker**

* * *

The influx of last-minute edits on his tablet kept popping up, even as the tributes took the stage. The work never stopped, until the moment the Games were completed, and the Victor was removed safely from the arena.

The Games design was a highly iterative process, and no one knew it as well as Milo did.

He was momentarily distracted, as the District 7 boy took the stage.

"Logan Arteficavitch, everybody!" Philostrate intonates as he clasps the boy's hand firmly in his own.

"It's good to be here," Logan responds, a little awkwardly, but Milo lets it slide. It's hard to be in the spotlight, for most people.

"We've been so curious about your tight-knit alliance, and the strategy you guys have come up with, to face the adversity of the Games."

Logan beams at Philostrate.

"Well, you'll see more about our strategy in the Games, but I can assure you that we're going to do great in… in there. We've got each other and a solid plan. We're all complimentary… and each of us bring something unique to the table. You'll just have to see, and support us."

"And what happens in the end? Are you planning on backstabbing your allies?"

Genuine confusion momentarily clouds Logan's handsome features.

"I don't understand what you mean."

Philostrate throws a knowing glance at the audience, and shifts towards Logan, "to put it plainly, there's betrayal written all over your alliance."

"You're absolutely wrong, and we will prove it to you," Logan defends his friends with a foul-hardy passion that makes Milo smile.

The effort is very clear, but in spite of that, the boy just seems so… boring and plain. He's got skills, and a nice alliance to play off of, but Milo isn't sure how long that will play out in his favor.

As Morgana Foster takes the stage, a cluster of posters go up in the middle section of the theater. Milo squints at the sloppy letters on the white cardboard.

"Morgana Foster for Career of the Year, isn't that so?" Philostrate booms loudly as he reads the inscription. "Hailing all the way from District 7!"

Morgana waves at the crowd, smiling brightly.

"Wow, you guys are even more enthusiastic than I thought!"

The audience is elated to see her, partially because her score promised someone of reputable skill. Her quick integration into the Career alliance was another point of great interest.

Of course, Philostrate decides to go the asshole route, bless his rotten soul.

"You've clearly got a pretty large fanbase at the Capitol already, but can we safely say you've been a fan of the Careers since your childhood?"

Morgana chuckles, her laugh low and throaty.

"Yeah, I guess you could say something like that."

"You must be really honoured. You earned your place among them though, with a 9 for a score."

Morgana explains deftly her rags to riches aspirations, and why the Games are the perfect opportunity for a girl with big dreams like her, while touching base with the kind of patriotism required from typical Careers.

The way she structures her story is clever, if not a little rehearsed. The crowd loves her, regardless.

"So, if you could pick, who's your favorite alliance member?" Philostrate asks.

"They're all really great, honestly," Morgana gushes, smiling fondly off-stage. "It's been only a few days, and we're like a family."

Philostrate doesn't let off, prodding. "No, but if you had to pick. Let's say I'd hand you your Victor title right now if you pick your favorite."

Morgana is caught off-guard, opening and closing her mouth. It's subtle, but Milo discerns the panic in her slightly-narrowed eyes. She didn't think this through.

"I guess I like Seeva a lot… because we're both big foodies," she finally settles on, taking a deep breath. "They're all great, but none of them could eat as much random weird stuff as the both of us."

"Is it because you both had rebel roots that you desperately want to outgrow by winning this?"

The buzzer cuts off any potential answer.

_Not fair_, Morgana mouths at Philostrate as her hair hides her face from the general crowd.

"Next up, Jean Taylor from District 8, and my _my_, the fashion statement on this man! Let's give him a big round of applause."

The boy is feeding off of the energy of the room, dancing in on shiny lacquered shoes. He looks positively flamboyant, and completely in his element.

Philostrate picks up on the boy's enthusiasm and greets him warmly, sitting down together with him. The boy's suit is bright pink, with intricate patterns sewn into the lapels at the front.

"How are you liking the Capitol so far?"

"It honestly has been the silver lining in this entire situation," Jean admits, waving his hands for emphasis. "Everyone has been so nice, and it's so _beautiful_."

He blows a kiss at a particularly enthusiastic fan in the crowd, and the whole theater erupts in praise.

"It must be a huge difference from District 8," the announcer pushes, trying to get the tribute on the defensive.

Instead, Jean gushes about the amazing service and the district's escort. The camera pans to Lucretia, who is sending Jean air-kisses that he catches.

"Overall it's been pretty amazing," Jean admits. "I'd love to keep sharing this experience with you all. If I win, no, _when_ I win, I'll be back here before you even notice I'm gone."

He garners a decent amount of claps from the crowd.

His District partner is much less forthcoming.

As Philostrate calls her up on stage, Bexley Ward stomps hurriedly towards the seat, her platform heels making loud clunky noises. Her dress is white, cinched at the waist, and for a moment she looks absolutely breathtaking.

But after a few restrictive steps, she huffs, hefts the dress up to her knees and grabs the fabric like a bunched-up rag she's about to throw out in the laundry, making her way to the announcer unimpeded.

The lack of proper etiquette and training from an experienced Victor is especially notable in her case, Milo notes down on his tablet. A lack of guidance can be particularly painful, throughout the Games.

"Forgive me, my dear, but I just _can't_ wrap my head around the fact that you're only seventeen."

Bexley scoffs, jerking her head backwards. Everything about the girl is rough edges, Milo thinks. He likes her, and he finds it unfortunate that the majority of the crowd doesn't share his sentiment.

"Yeah, the orphan life _sure_ ages you."

Philostrate waits a few more seconds for her to continue, but is met with a disagreeable stare.

"Speaking of orphans, ahem, we couldn't help but notice a horde of children escorted out after your goodbyes. Can you elaborate on who exactly they were? Are they orphans like you?"

"They're… my family that I found along the way."

"Are you concerned about their well-being?"

"Of course, I'm f- I'm _very_ concerned. I'll fight my best to get back to them," Bex answers bluntly, crossing her arms. She's not one to mince words, or… you know… use them extensively at all.

Philostrate tuts his tongue across his pallet, patronizing.

"How could they possibly survive without you?"

"They can and they will, because if not I'll come back to whip their asses into shape. And if I die, you can bet I'll be haunting the goddamn house, and that means you won't be able to sleep in til' 10AM doing nothing, Renzo, you hear me?"

The small outburst is met with a few laughs from the audience.

After finishing with District 8, the show host reverts back to calling the girls up first.

"Our youngest female contestant Mona Tillery from District 9, please join us!"

The little girl tiptoes onto the stage, waving at the crowd that swoons collectively at her adorable demeanor. Her baby blue dress has frills and a beautiful bow at the front. She looks positively childish and fragile.

When Philostrate asks her about her family, Mona makes a little sad choked noise.

"I miss them s-so much. I just wish they were here with me, because I have no one to even hug, or tell them I love them, here," Mona sniffs.

"Oh, _there there_ sweetheart, we all love you here," Philostrate attempts to console her, but the little girl is undeterred in her mission to show just how deeply shaken she is.

She cries bitterly, tears escaping her large eyes in droves. It's a tragic sight.

Usually unexpressive and stoic, Milo can't help but frown for the second time in minutes.

They actually discussed Mona's score extensively, since they had seen her perform much better during training. It was clear that when it came to her session with the Gamemakers, she severely downplayed her attributes and strengths.

Even now as she cries, Milo catches the small tell-tale signs of overacting. She is a little sycophant, but it's working like a charm on the audience.

"I love you all, ma', Arla, Zia, Georgina, and _Barric_."

Her voice breaks at the mention of her brother.

"You guys … I hope you know I'm sorry for everything bad I've ever done, I know I haven't always been the easiest one to deal with, but hopefully you will still root for me."

Milo hears a few particularly loud sobs coming from the audience, and when he shifts his eyes to the crowd, almost no one remains dry-eyed. Mona's heartbroken expression projected on the large screens across the theater exacerbates the _aw's_ and _poor thing's_ that travel across the audience.

The girl might be young, but she's clearly smart about her tactic.

Especially without a mentor, having worked out such a clear angle intuitively is impressive, and Milo vows to vouch for her if she makes it past the Bloodbath.

After Mona's emotional interview, Geoff Windsor takes the stage and the entire room lights up as the volunteer brings forth his thousand-watt charismatic smile and optimistic energy with him.

"Geoff, a volunteer from District 9 is unheard of… what influenced you to make the leap?"

Geoff's curly hair frames his face elegantly, complimenting the mustard-colored three-piece suit he is wearing. It's not a color Milo would personally pick for himself, but _somehow_ it works.

The boy effortlessly sits back, captivating the audience's attention almost instantly.

"Well, I guess I just felt like it was the right thing to do."

"Oh, we have a righteous man over here, my friends! Please, tell us more…"

The topic of conversation inevitably shifts to Geoff's alliance.

When the announcer asks Geoff the same question he asked Logan, the boy laughs off Philostrate's concerns.

"I mean, people might jump to conclusions before knowing the whole story. I mean, you only have what… three? Four minutes with each of us? That's not enough to know how much we've bonded, and how important we are to each other, y'know?"

Apparently satisfied, Philostrate cycles back to the original topic of conversation.

"Since we're running out of time, is there anything you want to say to anyone out there?"

Geoff thinks for a few seconds.

"To the kid I volunteered for, I hope you live a really good life with no regrets, because those can completely _tank_ you. They drag you down and a life of regrets isn't one worth living. Stay at school if you can, and keep smiling."

This statement is well-received, and Geoff parts to the sound of general approval.

After the noise subsides, Aderyn Klossner peaks in timidly awaiting to be called, her face neutral.

Whatever the quality of her interview afterwards, Milo instantly knows that the stylist for District 10 needs a raise.

After the phenomenal costumes during the chariot rides, the stylist did not disappoint, as the girl floats in on a beautiful dress that is dark blue at the very top, and fades into a fiery red at the bottom. The sheer material makes the girl look like she's an angel, and the trailing pieces of fabric falling from her arms accentuate that image. Intricate ropes hold the ensemble together.

"You are absolutely breathtaking Aderyn," Philostrate gushes, running his hand in the air, as though trying to touch the material. "Absolutely all of my compliments go to your stylist."

Aderyn blushes, as the camera pans to a stout little lady who waves happily at the camera.

The interview seems to take a rather traditional route, until the very last topic of conversation.

"We don't mean to pry, but some of our experts did a little bit of digging… could you elaborate on the nature of your father's work?"

Aderyn turns white as a sheet, her mouth opened without a sound escaping.

A few seconds elapse, before she takes hold of herself.

"Um… he was … he was a Peacekeeper."

"A commendable job! And a strong able-bodied girl like you must have been dying to follow in his footsteps, hm?"

At a loss of words, Aderyn can only nod weakly.

"Well that's refreshing to hear! Finally, a supporter of peace and order!"

Aderyn quickly glances off-stage, and then down at her feet.

"Now, you are shrouded in mystery, young lady, but I will ask you one last question before we have to let you go. As a Peacekeeper, your father should be _known_ for his heroic acts, which have sadly been buried and erased from common knowledge as time went by. Has he ever mentioned to you the infamous operation B.L.A.N.K., which involved the eradication of your district's most wanted terrorists?"

For a moment, it looks like Aderyn is about to faint, but she purses her lips and clasps her hands firmly together. Even without the direct mention of Enzo Ricci, the crowd connects the dots and a huge cry of dismay erupts. Thus far, this topic of conversation was buried and judging from Aderyn's reaction, she hoped for it to remain that way.

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

The ring of the buzzer cuts through the air.

As Valentino Ricci steps onto the stage and the crowd's screams ratchet up an octave higher, Aderyn lingers for a moment, mouthing something at her district partner, the contents of which is drowned out by the noise.

"Welcome to our resident heart throb from District 10!"

Whistles and high-pitched screeches drown out any following words by Philostrate.

It's for the better, Milo thinks, as it gives Valentino a moment to compose himself.

"How is everything with you? You seem to be in good shape," Philostrate purrs into the mic, and Milo grimaces when he punctuates this already-creepy statement by touching Valentino's biceps.

"The stay's been really great, actually! Met some nice people, and the food is to die for," Valentino jokes around, but his eyes are clouded with some indescribable feeling.

He is definitely rattled by what was said minutes prior, but he's doing an exceptional job hiding it.

Luckily for Valentino, the crowd hangs on to his every word, and he evades any pointed questions that Philostrate might want to direct his way, after his district partner's tumultuous interview.

"If there's one last thing I can squeeze in there," Valentino says, before the interviewer can throw any curveballs at him, "it's that I want to give a shout-out to the most amazing grandparents in the entire world. I know my Italian sucks, but _ti voglio bene_!"

He takes a moment to stare at the camera.

"Alessio you're the best brother so you better step up your grandson game while I'm away. I love you guys, I can't say it enough."

"A family man!" Philostrate screams, his hands to his heart as the buzzer sounds.

Next up, Jessamine Law from District 11 comes up to Philostrate, who twirls her around to show off the intricacies of her skirt. Birds, exotic fruits and mythical animals are sewn on with bright threads.

Milo is surprised at the quality of the girl's interview, especially considering the fact that Philostrate's questions keep getting more and more nonsensical and out-of-touch.

"Are you happy to be able to represent your district at the most prestigious event of the year?"

Jessamine smiles brightly.

"I don't think I would have ever had the opportunity to do anything this _grand_. We're honest people in District 11, so we… stay in our lane. Here, I hope I'll be able to inspire people to stay strong and loyal to their values. The Capitol has truly been a wonderous place to discover!"

Judging from her reaction at being reaped, that's not the extent of her feelings on the matter, but it's smart of her to avoid stating the outright truth, while also boasting about the Capitol's kindness. She is a normal kid with no real quirks that make her stand out after all, but that might just play out in her favour.

At the very end of her interview, Jessamine stands up.

"Back home, I used to work part-time in the orchards, and we had this six-tonal whistle we used to do to encourage each other, when we got tired."

Once again, clever move. Surrounding yourself with a brand… Milo nods along, in approval.

If there's one thing that the Capitol people love, it's to feel as though they're in cahoots with the tributes, somehow relating to them on a fundamental level.

"I'll show you guys," Jessamine laughs, as Philostrate demands her to teach the crowd.

She whistles six simple notes over and over, and the crowd echoes them, the sound a little distorted by the fact that hundreds of people attempt it at once.

Jessamine laughs and gives the whole theater a huge thumbs-up.

"My big brother taught it to me, and now I've taught you! Hopefully now we can all encourage each other to do better."

Powerful message hidden behind a simple and effective statement. Milo isn't sure if it's Casmir that came up with this symbol of unity, or if Jessamine did, but either way it is very commendable.

Afterwards, Philostrate welcomes Tyree to the stage, and at first, no one appears.

After a few seconds of painful awkwardness, the little boy stumbles forward, clearly shoved by one of the backstage operators.

He is hugging an old worn out-looking toy.

The crowd is moved by the boy's cuteness at first, but as he waddles over to the center of the stage silently, any semblance of charm evaporates and is replaced by utter confusion.

Philostrate is clearly tired, and Milo can feel his own patience quickly seeping through the cracks.

"My apologies for my frankness, Tyree, but… why are you so damn weird?"

Silence.

Milo wishes they could get something, _anything_, out of the boy, but the next three minutes are the most excruciating of Philostate's career.

The announcer tries his best to coax anything out of the child, in vain.

"What do your parents do?"

"Do you know _why_ you're here?"

The crowd booing is what finally causes Philostrate to personally escort Tyree off the stage, even before the buzzer rings. A sheen of sweat covers the announcer's forehead, as he comes back to the spotlight.

The enthusiasm with which Sparkle Aire from District 12 is greeted reinvigorates the host, who plasters a wide fake smile across his face to mask his embarrassment from before.

"So, Sparkle Aire of District 12, are you an escort?"

Instead of gawking at the offensive question, Sparkle grimaces, waving her bejeweled hand at the man in front of her. Her dress is a deep blue color, and the massive rings on her fingers reflect tiny specks of light in all directions.

"I'm a prostitute, darling, and frankly if you don't know the difference from a look, you shouldn't be asking."

Whistles are heard from the crowd, at Sparkle's gall.

Philostrate changes tactics, quickly.

"You've got an interesting and frankly atypical name there, _Sparkle_."

Sparkle cuts him off with a throaty and seductive laugh.

Milo grimaces as the most lecherous men in the crowd observe her through hooded eyes, already imagining themselves purchasing her company after her victory, no doubt. Some people are disgusting and just can't seem to appreciate art from a distance.

"Yeah, if you're gonna ask me what a girl like me is doing in a place like District 12, well... I'm going to let you in on a little _secret_."

Sparkle leans forward, strategically showing off at this point. The Capitolites in the theater are mesmerized.

"I used to live in District 1."

Exclamations and huffs of indignation erupt in the audience, as Sparkle leans back, satisfied at the effect she has caused. It would take an idiot to not piece this puzzle together, but the audience eats up this piece of artificial new information like the gossip-hungry idiots that they are.

"Scandalous!" Philostrate exclaims. "A beautiful and sensitive girl like you should not have been subjected to a life in the most miserable of districts."

Sparkle snorts, a distinctly unladylike noise, but keeps her mouth shut.

"Do you have any comments for the female tribute of District 1? Any advice perhaps?"

It's a clear ploy to artificially set these two girls up against each other. And Sparkle does not waste the opportunity.

She waves her hand again, extending her long legs and examining the crowd.

"I mean, between you and me, is it really even a competition? We all know who the real survivor is here. It ain't her."

To accentuate her point, Sparkle points at Cira backstage, her tone taking on a mean edge.

"Stay out of my way, because you don't hold a candle to the goddamn experiences I've had."

She is replaced by her district partner, as the last interviewee of the night. Philostrate throws himself into it with the last energy that he has left.

"Last but not least, let's give a huge round of applause for Abel Collingwood of District 12!"

The tribute seems to be carved of stone, a negative 'stay away from me' energy coming off of him in waves.

As he sits, Philostrate gets serious.

"Collingwood… that rings a bell, right, folks? If I'm not mistaken, your younger brother sat in this very seat, a few years ago."

"Two," Abel grits through his teeth.

"What's that?"

"Two years ago."

"Ah yes, that's quite right," Philostrate starts chuckling, before stopping at the murderous gaze Abel throws his way.

"Anyways, did your brother's tragic demise at the hands of a Career embolden you to volunteer for these monumental Games?"

"In a way."

"Can you elaborate?"

Abel thinks about it for a second.

"No."

"We have a very stoic volunteer on our hands," Philostrate attempts to lighten up the situation, but Abel is having none of it.

"You know, you can be a little bit more respectful to the tributes you interview."

Philostrate is baffled for a moment. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, you could be a little nicer and less of a dick."

"Speaking of dicks… I mean –"

The crowd erupts in laughter, as Abel glowers at them in silent rage.

"I meant speaking of _being_ _nicer_, have you found someone 'nice' to ally with, perhaps? Someone to serve as the yin to your yang?"

"No comment."

"This isn't a police investigation Mr. Collingwood," Philostrate chuckles nervously, but Abel ignores him completely, looking directly at the crowd. He's leaving them with a message.

"My brother was a sweet kid. I'm not so sweet."

The buzzer relieves Philostrate from ever inquiring about this any further, and the show host jumps up, bowing repeatedly as the crowd applauds his valiant efforts tonight.

And that's the end of the night, finalized by the anthem and the recorded closing statements by the President.

Now that this is over, Milo is restless once again, weighed down by the amount of work he has yet to finish by the end of the night. As the saying goes, there ain't no rest for the wicked and the Gamemakers are as wicked as they come.

Shuffling out of his seat and joining the crowd that spills out into the stairs leading outside of the theater, Milo allows himself a few seconds to think. The interviews are always entertaining, because the allow a quick preliminary glimpse into the tributes' minds, but at the end of the day, they don't matter.

After all, he already made bets on who won't be making it out of the Bloodbath. He had refused the first two years on the job, but Cyrellia coaxed him into doing it this year, and he accepted for some dumb reason.

In a way, it was nice to see some of his assumptions about the children's behaviour get validated, solidifying his claims against Cyrellia's.

Regardless, only one night separates them between today and the Games, now.

He can't help the jittery feeling that always precedes the Bloodbath, and he is sure everyone in the room feels the same.

It's his job to make sure it looks flawless.

* * *

_Notes: Hope you guys liked this chapter! I tried my best to really shake things up for the tributes, so hopefully the questions they were asked gave you a bit more insight on their internal struggles, aspirations, and anything else that is interesting. _

_We touched base with Cyrellia and Milo, and the next chapter will focus on the 24 tributes and what they're doing on their last night at the Capitol. In other words, you're getting 24 short POVs, and if that's not something to be excited about, I don't know what is hahaha! _

_The Head Gamemaker himself will also make a quick appearance, and then we're off to the races. Only. One. Chapter. Left. _

_Thank you for all your lovely reviews, my heart melted a little. Stay healthy, stay awesome, and keep washing your hands. _

_Peace and love. _


	36. Chapter 32: The Night Before

**The Night Before the Games**

* * *

**Andrew Vickens  
****District 5 Male, 18**

* * *

It's getting dark.

I can feel it from the way the sun doesn't leave a heat trail down my skin as we sit in front of the window.

The warmth comes from within instead, and I can't stop smiling.

"Alright we're ready!" Triss excitedly and Mara grabs my arm, slipping silently to my side to sit me down at our common room table.

The flour, eggs and previous mess have been wiped away, and I set my hands on the table which feels clean and cold under my palms.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Andyyyyy… happy birthday to you!" Mara and Triss sing in synchrony and for a tiny moment, everything feels so peaceful.

A small plate clinks gently in front of me, set down with extra care. I imagine how the single candle embedded in the icing of the cupcake in front of me flickers, dancing around to the rhythm of my friends' exhaled breaths.

"The cupcake is blue, Andy," Mara whispers, as I'm about to blow the candle. "It's got little edible pearl beads on it, that look like stars."

She's proud of how she decorated it, I can tell.

I was in charge of mixing the batter, while Triss poured the whole messy, and, might I add clumpy, concoction into small cupcake holders. Mara did a lot of angry micromanaging by hovering around us and criticizing us every step of the way. From Triss' praise afterwards, apparently she actually did a really great job embellishing them.

"Make a wish," Triss cuts in excitedly, right before I blow the candle.

I think about it for a second.

There's so many things I could be wishing for. Getting out of the bloodbath with Mara tomorrow safely. Wishing my parents to get over my death quickly, instead of bottling up their emotions until they rip them apart from the inside.

Not enough birthdays ahead of me to wish them all.

But I stop myself from spiralling on that dark path, and instead try to focus on the positives.

So many kids out there are rolling in their beds right now, crying alone. Or twirling butter knives from the sheer excitement and anticipation of taking a life tomorrow.

I'm happy here right now, in this moment. That'll have to be enough.

And then I inhale and blow the candle.

* * *

**Mara Griffith  
****District 5 Female, 18**

* * *

Andy blows the candle, and I smile slightly, for the first time in a long while.

I don't believe in wishes, but I still want to ask him what he wished for.

At the last second, I refrain from doing so.

"Well, what are you guys waiting for? Let's see if baking is a new-found talent of ours," Andy exclaims, removing the candle and breaking it in half before biting into his cupcake.

"How come you do that?" Triss asks, "the candle breaking, I mean."

Andy shrugs. "I don't know, it's a tradition. I've always done it. You make a wish, and then you make sure it happens by breaking the candle."

I bite into my own cupcake, and grimace a little. I almost spit out a clump of salt in mine. Andy gulps it down without a single emotion eclipsing his elation.

"I haven't celebrated my birthday with other people in years, this is fun!" he blurts out, "Gosh, it sounds pathetic when I say it out-loud but I'm seriously so pumped for this."

I chance a look at Triss who is inspecting his own cupcake, suspicion written all over his face.

"Hey if I make it to my _actual_ birthday, you better save one of these and send it to us in the arena," Andy remarks, licking frosting off another cupcake.

"Oh, don't you worry, there will be _plenty_ saved," Triss chuckles, as he almost spits out another bite.

_Who the hell puts salt in cupcakes?_ he mouths silently at me, as I shrug, pointing towards the tablet from which I found the recipe.

_Someone didn't do a great job mixing the batter, it seems, _I mouth back, jerking my thumb at Andy.

Andy, his seemingly-extraordinary auditory abilities be damned, catches on almost immediately.

"Hey, you guys, don't talk trash about my mixing," he warns us, scarfing down another cupcake with zero complaints.

The two boys dissolve into fits of laughter, and despite everything that is looming at the forefront of my mind, I join in.

* * *

**Mona Tillery  
****District 9 Female, 13**

* * *

I'm growing more and more frustrated as the words blur together in front of my eyes. I tap the tablet angrily with my index, trying to keep the light from fading.

"I know I'm slow," I grumble at it. "I'm trying my best alright?"

Reading is … hard. I'm trying to be proactive, but it's just so difficult when it takes me what feels like forever to get through every page. And I couldn't find an accessible version with lots of images, so I'm stuck here deciphering every word as though my life depends on it.

It absolutely might in the arena, and that's what pushes me to continue, at my snail-pace.

After my training session, I realized that while I have no fighting chance against the bigger tributes, I could use that to my advantage. I just have to be sneaky.

So far, I'm pretty sure I've slipped under everyone's radar.

Ma' always said that hard work pays off in the end, and I'm almost obsessive in my quest to work my _hardest_ right now, learning every possible plant, edible root and fungus that exists in our part of the world. I know it might not be enough but… I just have to believe it will be.

I'm younger than most of the other tributes, but that doesn't mean I can't catch up fast enough on all of the theoretical knowledge.

This knowledge… It might be my lifeline, in a few days' time.

And maybe that's just me trying to make myself feel better but… everyone glossed over the stations I was stuck at, except maybe the Fives, the boy from Six and the boy from Twelve.

My district partner and his allies looked over the books, but they didn't focus on them like I did. I eavesdropped on them too, and if they're right in their assumptions, I think I have a general idea on what the arena might be. I mean… I know it's speculation, but that's the best I can do right now.

The tablet flicks off as I spend too much time in my own head, and I hit my cheeks simultaneously with both of my hands to wake myself up.

I can do this.

People might have called me lazy back home, because I always took shortcuts in the fieldwork. But I'm not lazy.

I'm smart, and I won't be discouraged.

I just have to survive tomorrow and then I'll be able to figure this out.

Let's get back to work.

* * *

**Valentino Ricci  
****District 10 Male, 18**

* * *

"So?"

"So…" Addie stalls, biting her bottom lip and shifting uncomfortably in front of me.

I give her time to figure out how to phrase whatever she wants to say to me. Non-verbally, I try to convey to her that I just want to know the truth. One-minute stretches into two.

"I'm not mad at you, I hope you know that, right?" I tell her softly, but it only causes her to look down in anguish.

"Whatever you tell me, I don't care. I just don't want to be that idiot who doesn't _know_."

She shifts from one foot to another and I become suddenly aware of how small she looks, with me towering above her.

"Well you _should_ be mad, my dad killed your parents."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

She looks like she's about to start crying, but she holds on strong.

I keep pushing. "Is that why you've been so distant?"

Still no answer.

"Addie, you gotta understand, I just want to know-" I start, but she interrupts me.

"Don't call me Addie! You keep… you're always so goddamn _nice_ to me when I don't deserve it! Even now you're pretending as though you don't want to choke the life out of me, and I don't know what I've done to deserve being stuck with the _one_ guy who makes me feel so freaking guilty…"

She stops abruptly, breathing in and out. Her fists at her sides are clenched, and I can see the war going on in her head.

"Our families have this fucked up intertwining fate shit going on and… I was so scared that you were going to want to _kill_ me for it, but I also saw how kind and genuine you were. I was sure that when you found out, it would bring out your bad side, you know, but it didn't!"

Her voice hitches a little bit.

"It's almost worse this way."

I cannot find anything to reply to that. She turns away quickly, trying to leave.

"I don't care what your family did. Or what mine did. Compartmentalization is a thing you know… I literally have _nothing_ against you. Seriously, we can just ally. I'll come with you and Jess, I don't even care," I plead with her, racing to stop her from running away. "What can I do to prove to you that I don't hate you?"

"I … I don't think it's a good idea," Addie says slowly, and I can see the heartbreak and conflict in her eyes. "I know you don't, but you _should."_

"I need to go now," she says, her voice a tiny whisper. "Good luck Val, I wish you _all_ of it."

* * *

**Aderyn Klossner  
****District 10 Female, 15**

* * *

I can't escape quickly enough.

My feet make a small sound as they slap against the floor, until I'm back on the carpet of our District's common room. I didn't even bother to put on shoes, for fuck's sake.

In a twisted way, I finally feel free. Free of the restraints of what my family has contributed to, and free of the obligations to keep quiet about it.

Everything's out.

It feels like shit and I know it'll take me a while to process this, but I would be lying if I didn't say I was proud of myself for opening up.

I won't die a liar.

It's as though there are no more barriers, only the large expanse of uncertainty for what's to come. I'll deal with those problems when they show up, but as of now, I have accomplished everything that was needed and that's more than what most people can say.

I knock on Glenn's door, and he immediately opens up.

"You talked to Val, didn't you?" he asks after surveying my face. I must look like a complete mess.

"Can you just… stay with me?" I ask him, avoiding the question. Without another word, I go to my bedroom, leaving the door open.

My mentor comes in, sits at the edge of the bed and I know I must look hostile because he wrings his hands nervously together.

"So, you wanna talk about tomorrow?" he suggests hesitantly, but I shake my head.

"Honestly I just want someone _with me_. You're the last person I'll be able to interact with as the _real_ me, and … I just want to remember how it feels like," I decide.

"You'll have Jess," Glenn counters, "she's a good ally. A capable one."

"I know, but she's not District 10."

"You'll be okay Addie," Glenn says. "I'll always be watching out for you. You have this annoying habit of not letting people get close, but I'll always be there whether you want me or not. And I'll be sending you good food as long as the funds don't run out. I hope that's somewhat reassuring?"

"I suppose it is," I smile lightly at my mentor.

And at the very least, I know Val won't target me tomorrow.

That, in and of itself, is also reassuring.

* * *

**Luther Szeto  
District 2 Male, 18**

* * *

It's apt that we all assemble together on the rooftop once again.

_Like old times_, I think with a chuckle. Even though it's only been a few days, this feels like it always should have ended up this way.

The five us sitting, our heartbeats in frantic synchrony.

Despite Ambrox's reluctance, we made sure to extend the invitation to Orla. She declined, citing that she had more important things to do. It's not like we _wanted_ her there, but… it's only right, since this really is the edge of the precipice.

That's what Seeva said, anyways. I don't think Orla would appreciate that metaphor, since even I was clued in on her aversion for heights.

Anyways, I think _this_ is the craziest thing. My entire life has been nothing but a culmination of what's to come tomorrow. All of our lives, really.

Alice would comment on this being a little sad or that I have more to find some inner motivation for this… but the truth is that no matter how much I search within myself, I'm just not that _complicated_ and it's satisfying to be justified in how simple this feels.

"You guys want to play a game?" Ambrox asks, his head settled on Cira's lap, as she nervously kneads her fingers through his hair, lost in thought.

"Sure!" I smile widely. I like games.

"Alright, so we always played this in residence," Ambrox explains, sitting up. "I say three statements, and you guys guess which one's the truth. The one who wins gets to go next."

I nod along.

"I have three younger sisters, I have never smoked a joint in my life, I never killed anyone," he starts, counting down on his fingers.

"Definitely the first one's a lie, you don't seem like the big brother type," I settle on, as Seeva shakes her head laughing. Ambrox holds the most impressive neutral face I've ever seen.

"The rule is to pick the _truth_, Luther," Seeva chuckles, before turning back to me. "I think you're too uptight to smoke joints. Doesn't sound like your style."

I change my mind almost immediately. "I agree with Seeva!"

* * *

**Ambrox Linden  
****District 1 Male, 18**

* * *

"Any opinions from you, Morgana?" I ask, turning my head to the dark-haired girl. "I'm not going to ask Cira, since she already probably knows."

"Ah fuck it, let's go with the first statement, just for shits and giggles," she answers good-naturedly, sipping on some fresh orange juice.

"Well…" I keep the suspense for only a moment, before waving my hand at them. "As hard as it might be to wrap your head around it, I actually _never_ killed anyone."

Luther's jaw drops.

"Wait… like, you've done the _smoking_ thing but you've never… killed anyone?"

I shake my head, while trying to prevent an immature giggle from escaping my lips. This truth seems like the hardest thing for Luther to grasp, and it's frankly hilarious.

"Even by accident?!"

I laugh again at Luther's increasingly distraught expression.

"Like, I've practiced it, and I know all the _theory_, clearly. Just…" I make a slicing motion across my neck, "I've never actually done it."

Seeva nods understandingly.

"Are you worried about it?"

I shrug. "Not particularly. I just wonder what it's like. The fear has been bred out of us."

I glance quickly at Cira, who casts her eyes down, before continuing.

"Some people at our academy have… but it's frowned upon. Maiming is one thing, but killing… I guess for me it's more of a morbid curiosity rather than anything else."

What I'm saying is true.

For once, I'm not hiding underneath some veneer. I've thought this through sufficiently to realize that the tightness in my chest is not due to the apprehension of murder. Maybe that makes me fucked up, but from Seeva's understanding gaze, I sense I'm not the only one feeling that way.

I've got what… eleven hours before the games begin? And it's comforting to know I came here fleeing from my reality at home and that I have a team who shares my ideals.

Luther's dumbfounded expression makes us all crack up. The poor dude looks like he's glitched out, so I poke him with my foot.

"Since no one won, I'm curious to hear what Luther's got in stock."

* * *

**Seeva Andino  
District 2 Female, 18**

* * *

It seems like all of my previous worries about not fitting in were unfounded, at least for the time being.

This alliance is _working_, and it feels like my silent prayers were answered. I didn't completely screw up, and going in with that knowledge alleviates at least half of the stress I was shouldering previously.

"Come on Luther, we don't have all night!"

I can almost hear the gears in Luther's brain spring into action, trying to scramble together some truths and lies.

"I've uh… _totally_ smoked a joint," Luther blurts out, then scratches his head. "I really hate onions and ummmm… two of my statements here are lies!"

"That's not how you play the game, Luther!" Morgana cackles, while Ambrox literally rolls on the ground snickering. "You're making this too easy!"

"No, I'm not!" Luther insists, soliciting more laughter.

"We … ahahah, we all _know_ you've never smoked a joint, and you've literally picked out all the onions out of every single food we've eaten so far and complained about it rather loudly."

"HOW? How do you do this?" Luther demands, his voice panicked, as though Ambrox has just performed the greatest act of sorcery he had ever witnessed.

"No offense Luther, but you're not very good at this game," I chime in, patting him on the back sympathetically. He literally sags under my touch.

"I quit, this is too tough. You guys are too good."

"Alright my turn," Morgana says, holding her stomach from the laughing.

I smile. I'm glad she's integrated well into our team. It's almost seamless.

"I've passed out from doing too many push-ups once, I'm actually really good at painting and my favorite animal is a sparrow."

I frown.

"C'mon, those are like … the most _general_ statements! You gotta give us something juicy."

She's still guarded. I understand that to an extent, but if I'm noticing it, I know for a fact Ambrox is. She catches my raised eyebrows, and understands the intent of my statement. I smile only slightly. Trust goes both ways… she needs to make peace with that.

"Fine fine, uh… keeping that first one, I've never kissed someone and I was dropped on my head as a baby."

Now that's more like it. I lean in, warm contentment masking the worry that has stained everything over the past few days.

As long as tomorrow goes according to plan, I have a good feeling.

* * *

**Morgana Foster  
****District 7 Female, 18**

* * *

This is not nearly as stressful as I thought it would be.

I'm still putting my best foot forward, but it no longer feels like I'm the outsider.

These thoughts might be treacherous, I remind myself. I still have to work three times as hard to perform on an acceptable level. To make sure none of the people I am friendly with today stab me in the back with no consideration tomorrow.

"So, which one is it," I swivel my head around, brushing my hair behind my ear.

Ambrox obliges by pretending to inspect my skull with intense scrutiny.

"I don't know man, your head looks pretty egg-shaped to me," he jokes, and I resist the urge to swat his hand away. Instead, I just laugh politely. He sees the scar on my head, and sticks with his initial choice.

Seeva settles on the first one.

"You legitimately seem like the type to do that," she jabs her finger at me playfully.

"You wanna bet on the second one, Cira?" I ask the girl sitting in front of me. She's clearly grateful that I decided to include her.

"Sure, why not."

I stick my tongue out at Seeva.

"Well, you were _almost_ right, but I didn't pass out during push-ups. I passed out while doing too many pull-ups and then cracked my skull open."

I flip my hair to the side to show a thin but visible scar on my scalp.

"So, you were wrong about that too, sorry Ambrox."

"I guess I just really have the most boring and non-existent love life in history of love lives," I conclude, shrugging in a self-deprecating way. "Ain't got no time for kissing when you're training your ass off."

I get a whistle from Ambrox.

"I guess I've found your ultimate weakness after all."

I freeze momentarily.

"Clearly your time management is shit, because... I don't know how you do it in your district, but uh… some of us have time to do both," he says, winking at me. "Right Cira?"

"You win," I raise my hands in mock defense, and I turn to Cira smiling. I expect her to mirror my expression.

Or, I don't know.

I guess I just didn't expect her to see her lips pursed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Hey Cira, you alright?"

"Yeah ah… I'm just going to… get some more uh... fresh air," she chokes out, her breaths coming out wheezing. If I didn't see the haunted look in her eyes, I'd have thought she's having an allergic reaction from her raw voice.

Ambrox makes the move to follow her, but she gently shakes her head and he stops.

I avert my eyes. Maybe she's really worried about tomorrow.

It's none of my business, and for fuck's sake, I will stay in my own lane.

* * *

**Cira Dupont  
****District 1 Female, 18**

* * *

I feel like I'm about to collapse on the floor of the corridor as my feet bring me further and further away from my allies.

My breaths escape in short spurts, and I struggle to keep myself from choking on air.

Of all the times to be having a panic attack… now's _not_ the time. And I'd love to berate myself, but it's like every mechanism in me is overpowered by the panic and intense regret that brings everything else to a halt.

I just… I need to get away from people, right now.

I know they meant well, but this game… it just brought back some memories that I really didn't need to resurface right now.

I stumble to the elevator, repeatedly jamming my finger into the button that brings me to the lower balcony. I just… I just need time to think. I can't be around my allies, they'll think I'm crazy.

It's been days since I've thought of her, but Imogen resurfaces unbidden, to the forefront of my mind, and I have to bring a fist to my mouth and bite down hard to prevent an ugly sob from escaping my lips.

My feelings were always complicated.

It's just… now that she's gone, I realize how much I've _missed out_ on. How many things were left unsaid between us. She would have given her most prized possessions to be here right now, and all I wanted was to keep her close. I never even got the chance to kiss her.

I think that's what opened the floodgates on this meltdown … I'm fucking _eighteen_ and I've never even worked up the courage to tell my friend how I truly felt. Realizing that stings like nothing else.

I was always a coward.

I run to the balcony, breathing deeply as sobs wrack my body.

I'm going into the Games tomorrow and I'm so scared…

My allies aren't, but I _am_ because I'm not like them, I'm not good enough, and I've never even _kissed_ anyone because I was too busy being a stupid coward –

"Hey, you alright?"

I supress the urge to scream as I bounce back by reflex, right into the boy from District 10, Valentino Ricci.

"I'm … I'm fine," I wipe aggressively at my eyes, trying in vain to calm myself. Imogen's face still swims in the blur of my tears. "Please, can you leave?"

He sighs.

"I mean… I'll do it if you want, but I kinda also feel like shit. We don't… we don't have to talk. We can just sit in silence."

"We're enemies. I might have to hunt you down," I warn him, using Imogen's words. She managed to sound so terrifying. It sounds fake coming from me.

"I don't care," he says simply, and we sit down together.

"Just breathe," he recommends, and I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. "It doesn't matter what's gonna happen tomorrow. Just take it easy right now."

If only he understood that my frustrations were not with what was going to happen tomorrow, but with what has already occurred.

And there's no changing that.

* * *

**Daisy Jackson  
****District 6 Female, 15**

* * *

Sparkle comes to get me, and honestly, I don't really know what I'd do without her.

All of my joints ache, as though I've been sleeping on cold pavement for the past few nights. When I complain to my ally, she just nods pensively.

"It's the stress," she finally settles on, as we walk towards the lowest accessible floor.

"I'm not stressed," I counter, turning my head towards her.

"That's what you think, but deep down, even the people who say they aren't… they actually are," Sparkle disagrees, but her tone is conversational.

"Are you worried?" I ask her instead, trying to drive the conversation away from myself.

I don't need the extra attention on what hurts and what doesn't, because all the tiny raised pinpricks in my arms would drive me crazy unless I distract myself.

"Not particularly," she admits, as we sit down on two lounge chairs.

"Is that the truth?"

"I don't know."

We stay silent for a while, admiring the sunset on the horizon. The colors, they … melt into each other, and the slight breeze feels great on my skin. It's almost like the cushioning feeling of a drug in your system, except … it's not abrasive or superficial. It doesn't come at a price.

It's real.

"You still don't regret volunteering?" she asks me after a while, sitting up a little.

"No."

"That's fine," she answers.

But I want to clarify myself to her. I want her to understand.

"There was no – no life for me back there, yeah?"

She nods again, closing her eyes and breathing in.

"You'd almost think we're sun tanning here," she changes the subject, and I smile at her.

"Sit up for a second," she says and I obey immediately.

She inspects me from head to toe, her eyes lingering on the bruise skin around my collar bones and arms. She doesn't comment on them, but her gaze turns flinty before returning to normal.

"Are you tired?"

When I shake my head, she pushes my shoulders so that I am facing the city, my back to her. I trust her implicitly.

"I'm going to teach you something important now."

* * *

**Sparkle Aire  
****District 12 Female, 18**

* * *

"You know, back in District 12, I used to be the smallest little girl who couldn't fight. Hard to believe, I know. I couldn't even run away fast enough, because all the streets have these _tall_ fences, reaching up to prevent street scum from stealing," I start my story, weaving my hands expertly through Daisy's waxy hair.

"So, every time I would steal something, and I was a _lousy_ thief, they'd run after me and catch me, and give me a beating to teach me a lesson."

"I kept being beaten up, and one day I almost escaped, but the fucking merchant grabbed my hair and I went down. Hard."

I grab a strand particularly roughly and Daisy flinches, so I apologize before continuing.

"One tough lady picked me up not long after. She's the one who got me into this whole… business, but when I was still too young, she'd just look after me as best she could in exchange for some stolen and traded goods."

"She braided my hair, just like I'm doing now to you," I continue, looping the hair through in order to keep it as close to my ally's scalp as possible.

"She told me… don't let your enemies ever have anything to grab ahold of. They won't catch you that way."

Daisy nods, as I'm finishing up. I doubt her hair has ever been this glossy and neat, and she turns to look at me with undying gratitude in her pale watery eyes.

"That's how you need to live, Daisy. Don't ever let anyone play puppeteer with you. You live and die on your own terms, yeah?"

She nods, quiet.

"We were born into this world without the privilege like the assholes from District 1 and 2 bathe in every day. But I learned how to strengthen my fingers, toughened up and I was unbeatable."

"That's why you hate her, yeah?" Daisy asks, turning back slightly, to watch the sunset.

Even without naming her, I know who she's referring to. Cira.

"She'll get what's coming for her," I say simply. "We all will, but the difference is that all this opulence, all this fucking luxury she was allowed to live in will come to bite her in the ass."

"You don't have to worry about her," Daisy tries to reassure me, but I scowl.

I can't stop the evil nature of my feelings. I'm aware of the fact that it's not rational, but I can't stop the rage and jealousy in my heart.

It all comes down to the fact that life's unfair, but for fucking once I can do something about it.

It'll be time for retribution soon.

* * *

**Geoff Windsor  
****District 9 Male, 16**

* * *

I can see how stressed they both are. We're sitting all together, because we're a team.

But I can tell how much the uncertainty of tomorrow is gnawing at their thoughts.

Deep down inside, I wish I could react the way they do. But I can't bring myself to feel the anxiety that is so clearly written all over their faces.

Perhaps it's my unwavering optimism, or maybe it's something more sinister… my inability to really take anything seriously after years of desensitization to this kind of stuff.

The threat of death just doesn't seem real after years of surviving adversity through luck and skill.

I'm scared, yes. Scared of being injured, of seeing my allies hurt and being unable to do anything about it. It's all really primal with me, as though my body has gone on lockdown and everything has been stripped away to its bare essentials. And as a result, even this fear is muted compared to what my allies are feeling.

Regardless, the laughter amongst us died down a few hours ago.

It feels so alien being serious with them.

"This is the last time we see each other before the bloodbath."

I lean forward.

"And I just want you guys to know that it's been an honour meeting you all. You guys are literally the best people I've met in my life, and I'm sorry it's under these circumstances, but I don't regret it."

"Don't say that Geoff," Logan starts, his voice cracking slightly, "you're saying this like we're going to die."

"We're not, but I just want you guys to still know that."

I'm convinced we won't die in the bloodbath, because I trust these guys wholeheartedly. We're better and more interesting than many of the other tributes. It just wouldn't make any sense.

But even if something happens… I'll make sure to protect them.

That's my role in this alliance, after all. Bringing them up when they feel scared or uncertain.

"Let's go over the plan once again," I say after a few moments of silence.

I crave a drink, anything to bolster my resolve and bring back the jokes that are always at the tip of my tongue.

"Geoff runs in to get supplies. Very quick extraction, in and out," Logan says. "If you see an axe close-by, you'll go for it. If not, you'll meet up with us somewhere behind Jean's pedestal. I'll run quickly to Jean, and we'll retreat as far as we can while staying within your sight, so just bee-line towards us without engaging anyone else."

I nod and smile. I've never frozen at the idea of danger before.

It sounds easy enough.

* * *

**Jean Taylor  
****District 8 Male, 16**

* * *

I look at my allies, my eyes shifting from one to the other.

I drink in the details of their faces.

I wish I could feel as calm as they both look. I don't know how they do it. I just… I have no idea how anyone in their right mind could be composed in a time like this. We might _die_, and that terrifying thought alone brings on the kind of panic that makes me want to vomit.

The draining and nauseating feeling doesn't even go away when we relapse into silence, and after a few agonizing minutes, I realize what I need to do.

"I need to go sleep now, guys," I force out, getting up. I need to be alone with my thoughts right now, unless I want this to degenerate into a full-blown panic attack.

My gaze moves from Geoff to Logan, expectantly.

They don't make a move to stand up with me.

"Sounds good, I'll leave in a bit too. I just…" Logan stops himself, before continuing, "I just need to stay with someone."

I narrow my eyes imperceptibly at him. I don't want to leave if he doesn't.

This … this is the kind of stuff that just makes me go crazy. Not knowing what they're talking about, planning, when I'm not there. But the churning feeling in my stomach forces me back.

I do everything in my power to hold on as Geoff and Logan hug me simultaneously. I internally berate myself for even thinking these evil thoughts… they would never hurt me. How could I even think of that? What kind of horrible person thinks these things about their friends?

The inhumane focus that it requires to not start crying here and there at the finality of it all sucks out the last of my energy when I somehow get to my room, quietly closing the door and tiptoeing to my bed.

I throw the covers over myself, burrowing myself within the pillows.

I feel so small. Unhappy.

_They stayed there for a reason,_ a dark and nasty part of my brain comments. _They saw how uncomfortable you got, and they waited it out so that they can talk freely. They can't trust you. You're the weak link._

It's not true though. I _know_ it's not true because they hugged me, and all those things Geoff said were genuine. Geoff is the most genuine person I've ever met.

_People always seem genuine until they're not. It's good to have doubts. People who have doubts survive. _

"Stop it," I whisper out-loud, naively believing I can stop these negative thoughts from invading my brain. I shut my eyes, and block my ears with my hands, but there isn't much that can be done to bar my imagination from wondering.

I'm plagued by waking nightmares of getting stabbed, eviscerated, thrown down an endless well where I break all of the bones in my body and lie there in agony for hours.

* * *

**Logan Arteficavitch  
****District 7 Male, 15**

* * *

I only sit for ten more minutes before Geoff yawns and starts dosing off.

I poke him in the arm, causing him to open his eyes sluggishly.

"As much as it sounds like a fun time to fall asleep in this reclining chair, I'd be a terrible friend if I left you here," I chuckle quietly.

"Think of it this way, it's the last time you'll have an actually nice bed to sleep in for a while."

Geoff stretches his muscles and cracks his neck.

"You're right, man. So…see you tomorrow?"

I can tell that a lot of stuff is going through his mind too.

I nod.

"I know we won't talk before we all join up after the worst is over but… be careful out there, yeah?"

We both stand up. He pokes me in the arm, smiling sheepishly.

"Careful isn't usually in my uh… _lexicon_, but I wouldn't ever flake on you guys. Someone has to keep up the humor in this alliance," he says, winking. "Y'all are so awfully silent when you're stressed."

We go our separate ways, and just as I'm entering the District 7 housing quarters, I can see a dark figure creeping down the corridor. When the light hits her, I see that it's Morgana.

I smile at her, opening the door for her.

She smirks.

"What the hell are you doing up so late?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, but I'm sure you were hanging out with your _newfound_ friends," I answer, walking through the doorway myself.

"Well, that just sounded awfully judgemental," Morgana teases me, and I put up my arms in self-defense. Suddenly, she gets really serious.

"You have a plan tomorrow, right?"

I nod silently, unwilling to divulge any information.

"If it's me, I promise I won't go after you guys," Morgana says, extending her pinky. "District loyalty is important, you know."

I grin back and shake her pinky with mine. "Deal."

"Good luck Logan. I _really_ wish you all the best," she calls after me as I make my way to my bed. I shoot her finger guns in response, an echo of a moment shared at the chariots.

It all feels so long ago.

Right before my head hits the pillow, my last thoughts are with my sister. I hope she's not killing herself over this, and that she understands that I'm in as good a position as I can be.

I just need to keep believing.

* * *

**Salamandra Mitch  
****District 3 Female, 17**

* * *

I'm in the middle of ironing out the details of how I'm going to be navigating the first bit of the Games. That's if Valentino even _ends up_ where I want him to be.

We've talked it out, but he seems like the non-committal type.

As far as I know, I wouldn't put it past him to dump my ass and ally himself with his district partner who he seems to have a soft spot for.

They're… friends or something. Have a complicated and convoluted past that was exposed during the interviews. The kind of shit the audience eats up by the spoonful.

So, I'm not putting all of my eggs in one basket, obviously. I've got other tricks up my sleeve, if it comes to that. But the theatrical part of me is secretly hoping he'll pull through, because that's going to be the perfect set-up for some quality drama.

A rapid knock on my door snaps me back to attention.

"Come in," I yell loudly, with a complete disregard for our escort. Anyone sleeping tonight is either too deep down the rabbit hole of denial or they're useless.

The doorknob turns ominously, before a curtain of Eli's red hair pokes in.

I cross my arms across my chest. "How did you know I wasn't sleeping?"

"Come on, you're a keener, not some sort of pacifist that just lies down and does nothing of the night before they leave," Eli smirks at me from the door, before inviting herself in.

"Besides, I'm actually going to miss you," she admits, avoiding eye contact, her eyes roaming around the room. "You're actually _fun_ and decently competent. You don't cry and you're not hopeless."

I smile at the backhanded compliment.

I mean, yeah. I've just been so focused on learning the most that I can that I haven't had the time. I can't afford to ever doubt myself.

Even a split second of hesitation can bring you down harder than anything else.

"So, what's a house like, in Victor's village?" I ask, steering the conversation in that direction. "Is it really all that it's made out to be?"

"You're a special case, buddy," Eli responds. "I've literally never heard a _single_ person talk about victory the night before the actual Games. That's bad luck."

"Whatever, I don't believe in jinxing things," I disregard her comment.

"It's big. You'll be my next-door neighbor when you win, so maybe your little sister and my sister's kids can play together."

"One big happy District 3 family of murderers," I joke.

"You better not fucking die in the bloodbath, after this," she warns me laughing, and I snort loudly in response.

As if.

* * *

**Bexley Ward  
****District 8 Female, 17**

* * *

"So, you're saying we just… adopted two more allies?" I ask for what feels like the millionth time, as Cassie nods enthusiastically.

"That's like… a decision you made, _consciously_?"

He nods again, even faster. I start pacing around the common room.

"Like, you didn't have a concussion that's clouding your judgement, when I turned my eyes away from you for two goddamn _minutes, _right? That big brain of yours thinks getting two small children for allies is smart?"

"I mean, I'm sure that if we all make it past the bloodbath, you'll have an extra two kids to pick from who would be willing to give you shoulder massages or like, gather you flowers after a healthy dose of surviving?" Cassie blurts out, and I whip back at him.

"_Seriously_?"

Cassie is about to launch himself again into complex statistics of how survival in numbers _is_ the more apt model to follow in a death-match situation, but I interrupt him with an exasperated sigh.

"Fine! You can keep your weird minions…"

Cassie salutes me and springs off the couch, his toothy grin infecting me with the desire to smile too.

"You wanna invite them over?" I ask, sensing the question before he even asks it.

"I think that would be good, unless you're too tired?" he asks, and I chuckle. This kid is so aware of everything, it's scary sometimes. I rub my eyes. I'm tired, but Cassie's quasi-neurotic positivity wins me over.

"I mean, if Jean was allowed to bring his entire alliance over, then I reserve the right to do the same," I mutter under my breath, as Cassie sprints towards the door.

"You're not going to be disappointed, Bex!"

I'm left alone for mere minutes before there's a rapid knock on the door.

As I open it, Cassie bursts into the room, and I catch a glimpse of two younger boys, shuffling their feet at the door.

"This is Scout," Cassie points at the smaller red-haired boy who smiles timidly up at me, "and this is Roizer. They're really nice! And qualified."

Roizer is taller but only barely, his near-skeletal wrists peeking out from his sweater pockets. Qualified to pick flowers for my sorry ass who will be stuck micromanaging this daycare, that's for sure.

"Nice to meet you guys," I smile, as I push them slightly to get them inside and close the door behind them.

I have no idea what I've gotten myself into.

But it's not like I had a plan before, either.

* * *

**Cassius Fleur  
****District 3 Male, 15**

* * *

All the numbers point towards this being a complete and utter disaster.

But I can't bring myself to care about it right now.

Not gonna lie, if you plucked me straight from my district and brought me to participate in the Hunger Games, I wouldn't in a million years be able to predict this is the way I'd be spending my last night in the Capitol.

And yet, as I look to my right, I see Scout and Roizer sitting on the floor, listening intently as Bex settles a deck of cards in front them.

Momentarily, I get the urge to cry, because this just feels so normal and…

And we might never _have_ that again.

I swallow the knot in my throat and join my newfound friends. Nope, I am not going to be ruining this with an old crying fest. Not happening.

"So that's how you play," Bex concludes just as I settle myself on a cushion next to her.

"Wait, hang _on_, what're the rules?" I ask, having missed the essential spiel that the other two boys were privy to.

"Rule number one of Go Fish: don't be late to the rule explanations," Bex intonates sagely, before throwing around cards.

"Wait, that doesn't sound like a real –" I start up but am interrupted by Scout who puts a hand on my foot gently.

"If Bex says it's a rule, it's a rule," he mutters ominously, and I am left gawking at Bex.

How the shit…

She smirks at me knowingly.

"Kiddos learn fast, I like that."

I learn pretty quickly that the game consists of treachery of the highest degree.

Also, improbable statistical number combinations that leave me flustered at every turn.

Apparently as the only good law-abiding citizen of this goddamn room, I actually respect the rules of putting down pairs.

The same cannot be said of my opponents.

"Go Fish," Bex tells me for what seems like the ninth time in a row.

"It's literally fucking impossible for you to not have a Three!" I complain, only to be met with the most impenetrable poker face in the universe.

"Go. Fish." Bex persists, her tone calm and even. I'm shaken to the core, starting to doubt my own sanity.

I stare helplessly at Roizer, who stares back without pity in his eyes.

He mouths Bex's instructions, as Scout stifles a mischievous giggle.

"You are all evil," I stammer, peer-pressured into picking up another card.

As I pick a four, I swear and throw it down frustrated.

"It's a four, isn't it?" Bex asks innocently.

I stare at her dumbly until it hits me.

"You … you cheated!" I point at her, backing away. "You already claimed to put down two pairs of fours, and that's … that's impossible!"

She sticks her tongue at me in response.

* * *

**Scout Trinian  
****District 4 Male, 13**

* * *

It's late, and I know I should be going to sleep very soon.

But I'm just having such a _good_ time and I have friends, so I can finally ignore the horrible feeling that hasn't gone away since the moment I was reaped.

I wish my mom could see me now.

I think… I think she'd be really proud of what I've been able to make of this situation.

I did exactly as she said. I even… I never would have thought that I would be able to get a strong and older person like Bex to ally with me, but that's happening now!

I snap back to attention as Bex calls out Cassie for lying, and he shakes his head in resignation as he's forced to pick up _all_ of the cards. The new game we're playing, it's actually called "Bullshit".

I'm decent and Roizer isn't bad either, but Bex is an absolute queen.

"Bullshit again, my man," Bex laughs.

"I don't understand what kind of _bullshit_ trickery this is, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this," Cassie threatens her.

He is on the verge of a mental breakdown, gathering cards left and right, and Roizer is rolling on the floor, trying to contain his laughter.

I roll over too, and Bex drops her cards, snorting indignantly.

"Aw, come on guys, you aren't even taking this seriously anymore."

A knock on the door interrupts any retort. It's a short rapid sound, coming from someone who's here with a mission.

Bex gets up and opens the door, revealing Mags standing in the hallway.

At first, I think she's going to be mad, but she smiles kindly at Bexley and then at me, before introducing herself and asking if she can come in.

"It's really nice of you to allow Scout to join you," she appraises all of my friends, her eyes finally landing on me. "I think it's better if he goes to bed now, but if he wants to stay a little bit longer, it's fine by me."

"No, I think he should go to sleep," Bex agrees, sadness tinting her tone ever so slightly. "Big day tomorrow."

"Wait wait, before you go," Cassie chimes in, "do we have a bloodbath strategy plan?"

Roizer nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, we haven't-t-t talked about it y-yet. Just so we're a-all on the same page."

"When everyone is at the pedestals, y'all look at me, and I'm going to assess which direction we're going. And then we're going to run as fast as we can," Bex decides. "You run in the direction I tell you, _away_ from danger. End of story."

Mags nods.

"I can't guarantee you'll get sponsor gifts, but I'll do everything I can to send you our resources. I'm sure Pulse will do the same."

"Better stay alive and hungry than dead," Bex affirms, as I get up and go to hug her. She seems momentarily stunned by the gesture, but pats my head nonetheless.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Scout. It was really fun playing with you, we gotta do that again sometime soon," she says playfully, and Mags steers me towards the door.

Before she leaves, she grabs Bex's arm, gratitude written all over her face.

"Seriously, you're a _good_ person for doing this. Thank you."

Bex doesn't respond, only nods.

I wave at her and the boys, yawning. She mimics yawning too, winking at me when I laugh.

I don't think we're supposed to feel that way, but I actually feel safe.

* * *

**Roizer Loudon  
****District 6 Male, 14**

* * *

"I sh-should leave too," I say uneasily, when Scout disappears beyond the door. I don't want to overstay my welcome, and Bex has already been kind enough to accept us into the alliance.

"No, you can stay if you like," Cassie interjects, but I can see Bex rubbing at her eyes a little.

"You-you guys need sleep too," I say, taking a deep breath.

"Are you gonna be okay though?" Bex asks, concerned. "I know you don't have a mentor, so if you want to just sleep here, you can take my bed and I'll take the couch…"

Strangers don't usually extend this level of kindness and care to me, so I'm really at a loss of words.

I swallow painfully.

As much as I would love to not be stuck alone for what might be the last hours of my life, I have my allies to think of. They… they accepted me. And that's worth a lot. I can't start out by leeching off of them at every opportunity I get.

"I-I've got my stor-stories to finish up, I'll… be fine," I make up an excuse, already edging towards the door.

"Oh, that's right, I remember that from what Scout mentioned in his interview."

I nod. "I c-can show them. After." After the bloodbath, if we all survive.

"So, you know how to write, huh?"

When I nod again, her eyes light up longingly.

I want to ask her what's going through her mind.

Instead, she changes the subject.

"You're only allowed one thing, right?"

Probably judging from my confused expression, she hastens to clarify.

"Like, only _one_ token, so you can't bring a pen and your sketchbook, right?"

"Oh, yeah, b-but I was j-just gonna bring… my book," I affirm. It's what really matters, after all. It's not like I'll have time to make new stories.

She scratches her chin thoughtfully.

"I… I don't have a token," she admits to me and Cassie. "I don't really care, because everything that matters is in here."

She touches her temple, to punctuate her point.

"I could maybe ask if I could bring a pen with me."

I start shaking my head, trying to assure her that it's not necessary, but she stops me.

"Seriously, as long as they don't think I can use it as a weapon, it's settled. If there's one thing that I could ask, is that you write me a short letter for my kids back home."

Her kids. The other orphans she takes care of. She talked of them at her interview, I remember. I don't even know how to thank her, so I just do what Scout did and approach her, my arms extended.

"What, you want a hug too?" she asks me, and before I can stumble on my words about how we don't _have_ to, I just didn't know what else to do, she drags me into her arms.

"Look, I know we've known each other for a day, but we're in this together now. It's crazy, but it's happening."

* * *

**Jessamine Law  
****District 11 Female, 16**

* * *

"Are you _sure_ the plan is going to work?"

"Jess, look, I can't be one hundred percent sure of anything," Casmir sighs, and I put my head between my knees.

The blood is rushing through my head at a maddening pace and it feels like I'll go deaf if this continues any longer.

I just wish he would tell me this will all work out _fine_.

"I know you're stressed out," my mentor starts, and I snort involuntarily.

"Yeah, no kidding, what gave it away? Maybe it's the panic-attack I'm having before the stupid Games even begin," I croak, my voice hoarse from gulping down air frantically.

Casmir's hand on my back is the only thing steadying me as the rest of the world spins.

"It's just so hard," I force out, breathing deeply. "I literally just… my mind keeps spiralling that this _can't_ be happening."

"You will be amazing, Jess," Casmir assures me, but I'm having none of it.

"You don't understand Casmir… I… it's not _enough_ to do amazing! It's either you survive, or you don't. And no matter how hard I try, it might never be enough, and I just don't know how to live with that kind of uncertainty!"

I literally feel like I'm drowning.

It's funny because it's always like this. Whenever I have a high-stakes situation coming up, it's the night before that is absolutely excruciating. I know tomorrow I'll be focused and ready for action, but the crippling anxiety creeps up on me the night before and … it's not pretty.

Except now, it's magnified because _hello,_ Hunger Games and probable-death incoming!

I choke again, feeling like I'm about to vomit. I might straight-up die.

Like, _no more_ Jessamine Law, and I don't even know what comes after.

I look up at Casmir, my eyes filling up with tears, because for god's sake I don't even know if I'll completely disappear or if… if there's something else beyond?

I just don't know, and _not knowing_ is killing me –

"Casmir, if I die, please can you talk to my family and make sure they're okay?"

Casmir's eyes are incredibly sad and he looks so much older, weighed down by years of suffering and guilt.

"You have to promise me, Casmir!"

On a regular day, I would never subject someone to this kind of demands. But I can't function knowing that this might all end and people won't even get the closure because there's no one to take care of them.

There's so many things left unsaid.

And I know… they'll just keep _going_, because that's what we _do_. But no one is going to ask Will about his feelings, and how the shit are you supposed to carry on like that?

* * *

**Tyree  
****District 11 Male, 12**

* * *

"It's going to be a big day tomorrow!" Elora says, when she finds me in my room, sitting on the floor with Herbert under my arm. "You need to get some sleep Tyree."

I've been kind of just… sitting.

For a long time.

I don't really know what else to do, after I've eaten everything there is to eat.

I imagined myself as this really long snake that digests its prey for months on end, but that got boring pretty quickly. And I don't really know what's happening tomorrow, but I'm getting the feeling I won't be staying here for much longer.

She approaches me and crouches so that her eyes are at my level.

"Hey, I know what we are going to do, darling. How about I read you a story, and then you promise me you'll sleep until I come to pick you up in the morning."

I guess… that doesn't really sound bad. It's actually a pretty fun idea!

I quickly race to my bed, hiding under the covers.

I've never been read a story before.

To come to think of it, I wonder if I somehow fell into a fairy tale.

I probably did, on accident. All the colors, the food, the people are so much brighter than back at home, so it must have been some kind of rabbit hole I fell down through, when I went on that train. And now I'm getting stories too!

Elora picks up the flat black tablet on my table that I hadn't used, and taps it a couple of times to activate it. The screen goes bright, just like my television at home.

She comes to sit on the bed and selects a book to read. The first page appears, and I peek my chin above the covers to see the words that cover the whole screen.

I wait patiently, and she looks at me.

"It's a story about a spider and a pig, that became the very best of friends," Elora starts. "The original version was lost, but during the launch of the Great Revival, our President pooled many of our resources to rewrite and reconstruct many of the stories and creations that were destroyed."

"I wanna hear it!" I pipe in, already imagining the spider and the pig in my head.

"Where's Papa going with that ax?" Elora starts, taking on a kid voice, and I start laughing. She keeps going, and the book is incredible.

Television is one thing but… Elora's kind voice just lulls in such a rhythm that makes my heart hurt, but in the best way possible.

Her voice tapers off as my eyelids begin to droop.

"Tired, huh?" she whispers softly, as I squirm to be warm. She starts tucking me into bed, as I settle in the most comfortable position.

"Wait, but you didn't finish," I start, half-heartedly. I kind-of want her to continue, but I'm sure she can finish it tomorrow. I just don't want to be rude.

She smiles sadly at me.

"You'll finish it tomorrow, right?" I continue hopefully, when she doesn't answer. "Is the spider and the piggy alright?"

"Of course, Tyree, they stay best friends for the rest of their lives. Nothing can break something like that."

My head falls back into my pillow and I'm left smiling giddily. I knew it was going to be a good story!

* * *

**Abel Collingwood  
****District 12 Male, 16**

* * *

I lie in bed, restless.

My thoughts can't help but wonder, even though I know I should be focusing on getting some sleep before tomorrow.

I just can't help trying to project what my brother was feeling, when he was stuck here.

Was he trying to make the best of his time here or was he scared?

I don't feel much of anything.

The anxiety dissipated what feels like hours ago, replaced by the resolve to not die tomorrow. At the very least, I have to make it past the bloodbath.

But Knox _felt_ so much. I try to remember what exactly my parents had been going through the night before the games. I think they prayed a lot.

Not exactly sure who they were praying to, but the fact of the matter is that there was the constant buzz of implorations to a higher power, to anything above to protect their son.

They probably are doing the same thing with me now, and it stirs something in me that I suppress almost instantly.

I shouldn't have hurt them the way I did. And I'll hurt them a lot more before this ends with either my death or my victory.

I know my father just wanted Knox to win at whatever cost. But my mother… she just wanted us to be good people.

And that's not doable in this kind of situation, especially if you want to win.

As I close my eyes, I try to imprint within my memory the faces of my loved ones and realize that they're already foggy. Not foggy to the point of disappearing, but I have to focus extra hard to remember the creases in my father's face.

It's been so long since I've focused on anything other than the Reaping. So, it's as though I lived with my parents, but I hadn't _really_ known them for quite some time. Only the echo of what they used to be, before my brother's death.

Maybe it's for the better.

If I'm doing this for myself alone, this disaffect is what might carry me through the toughest times.

I succumb to slumber, not feeling much of anything at all.

* * *

**Orla Ferraris  
****District 4 Female, 17**

* * *

I should have been asleep hours ago, but I just couldn't stop.

I guess I underestimated the amount of time this search would take, but I can't end it without knowing the truth.

I keep flipping through pages and pages of previously classified reports, which were apparently now available to the public after years of compilation.

It comes in handy but it's increasingly difficult, since I've already combed through all of the high-profile Capitol generals and officers, which means that photographs are becoming increasingly blurry and sparse.

The screen flickers, and I curse as I notice its battery running out. I don't even have a _name_ to go by, and this is taking hours… but I'm not fucking Orla Ferraris if I don't get to the bottom of this.

I'm not even thinking of the Games, at this point. It's one step at a time, and I'll succeed in finding the identity of my parents, and then I'll win this.

But the annoying electronic clock at the side of my bed displays 3:24AM, and the red of the numbers hurts my tired eyes.

I know I'm getting closer to the truth, because I can feel it in my bones. Only a few more reports. Only a few more names.

Suddenly, I have my mother staring back at me. It's the same photograph I have on my bedside, and I grab it and put it side-by-side with the tablet, just to be sure I'm not dreaming.

The woman is smiling, her husband's colorful hair and tattooed skin is so much clearer, compared to the grainy replica I hold in my hand.

Officer General, Capitol 260704.

I drink them both in, smiling brightly, before reading my mother's name, for the first time.

Yua Nakamura.

I keep reading, reinvigorated and entranced by the newly available information in front of me, relishing in the fact that I finally _found_ them. My heroes who were separated from me.

There are only a few lines, and they concern my mother.

_Yua Nakamura_

_Age: 29 (deceased) _

_Family members: - unknown -_

_Known as the Horned Viper. _

_Murdered her husband (__Dendroaspis polylepis__ poison administration) when her mission was compromised. Exposed as a double agent and an undercover rebel that infiltrated the Capitol. A bounty of 20 million credits was offered for her imprisonment. _

_Following her capture, she was tried for her crimes of murder, embezzlement, and trading of state secrets. Executed for treason of the highest degree._

_Date of execution: March 25, 2 P. P. E. (2272 A.D.)_

_Method of execution: Hanging._

_Reported death at: 09.30 EST_

There's more, but I cannot see it, because the screen flickers off, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the black screen.

_An undercover rebel that infiltrated the Capitol. _

_Executed for treason of the highest degree. _

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding in. It comes out shaky and uneven.

The weight of my actions come crashing down on me. For the first time, there's no anger, no disappointment. Only a numbness that scares me more than what has been revealed on tablet.

How could it come to this?

For the first time, I have no idea how to process this and I wonder if I've made a huge mistake.

* * *

**Quill Daemeon  
****Head Gamemaker**

* * *

As it stands, Quill Daemeon hasn't seen Pax in a week, working like a dog to make sure that the Games were ready for tomorrow.

At this point, when everything was already in place, he could not wait for the Games to start, if only to get his three-hour break after the Bloodbath. That was the only time when the Gamemaker center operated on a skeleton crew, due to everyone unwinding after the tension-filled first few hours.

He knew Cyrellia would undoubtedly remain and he trusted her to run the Games without his input for the short while that he was gone. Never mind that she took up any opportunity she could get to stay away from home, if only to avoid her newborn's tantrums. While he was the captain of this ship, she was the most capable, if not the most obedient, second-in-command. And regardless, he needed some time to rest his eyes. After all, he had been standing and watching the latest reports for over thirty-six hours, running around to make sure his whole orchestra was in sync.

Two new messages appeared on his tablet, blinking blue.

One from his fiancé.

"Hey babe, you're a trooper, you got this!"

Pax.

Always trust his fiancé to bring him up when the three cups of coffee in the past hour couldn't. Quill smiled at the tablet, before flipping back to the arena cameras.

They were placed as he had requested, because the initial layout hadn't provided the perfect view of the Cornucopia. A few had been obstructed by the structures, but all were now in the perfect location. After all, the President had stressed he wanted every detail captured, the raw emotion and violence displayed on the screens of millions.

While Mr. Daemeon never trusted the tributes implicitly, they were duplicitous children after all, this cohort of tributes sure seemed to be teeming with violent intent and chaos.

And the bloodbath… well, he was certain it was going to be a spectacle to behold.

* * *

_Notes: This chapter is humongous, the longest one to date actually, so I'll keep it short and sweet. The Bloodbath will be brought to you very shortly! I hope you liked the pre-games because it's tragedy from here-on out. _

_Peace and love. _


	37. Chapter 33: The Bloodbath

**The Bloodbath  
**

"In the pantheon of sins, murder is far more honorable than betrayal."

* * *

**Seeva Andino  
****District 2 Female, 18**

* * *

_**Timestamp – 10:53AM**_

* * *

The jitters in my stomach begin in earnest when we are led into the small enclosed room with no windows and no doors. Just a metallic cold bunker, smelling of cleaning products and quiet dread.

My dread.

We flew here and already that was something else, but now I _know_ I'm underneath the arena.

It's a fact that I can no longer escape whatever is coming for me, so I take deep breaths and tighten my diaphragm, slowing my frantically beating heart.

I left Sujax on the aircraft that will bring him directly to the mentor control center. To the place where he will spend the Games, provided that I survive until the very end.

The last words he said to me was to watch my back and to make _myself_ proud_, _in there.

Sujax is like that… he doesn't say much, but when he does, it means a lot. Athena might be the most experienced with combat, but there is nothing that can replace the innate understanding that Sujax has of these Games and of his district.

I try to latch onto that.

The quiet confidence that I always had a grip on is not going to desert me now, of all times.

Passing a hand through my black short hair, I try to memorize the feeling. Realistically, it won't be as clean and springy as it is right now, for another while. I concentrate on the way the glossy curls tickle each of my fingers.

It's nice to feel clean… literally and figuratively. To not feel the grime on every inch of your skin and soul.

As I change into my arena clothes, my mind wonders to Imari who must be sitting in a bar somewhere, his knuckles white from grabbing the chair in front of him. Probably 'Nan's Horn' knowing him, where he'll spend the whole bloodbath gritting his teeth and throwing around expletives with impunity.

He has complete faith in my capabilities, but I know that this wait must be excruciating for him.

I crack my own knuckles in anticipation, closing my eyes and concentrating on the feeling of the soft and comfortable material on my skin. Not something for extremely cold conditions, which is nice to know. The cargo pants are nondescript, and the black tank top doesn't let on much either.

I dig my toes into the soles of my short boots, which are a perfect fit.

I enjoy the softness of the hoodie and as I put my hands into my pockets, I fish out a small rectangular paper with a fancy border.

"_Wonderland Ticket for One_". Alongside the cryptic title, my name and District are printed out in shiny golden letters. I stuff it back into my pocket, cautiously.

Interesting…

But the arena could literally be anything. It's out of my control and I shouldn't be speculating.

The measured and deep breaths I take calm me down and I stand there, ignoring the shuffling and darting around of my stylist.

Nothing matters anymore, except for my unwavering focus.

"Two minutes before launch," a deep electronic voice intonates from the intercom, and the tube slides open.

No point in delaying the inevitable.

I step in voluntarily, the metal plate beneath me stabilizing my steps.

The tube slides shut and I turn around, surveying the room I was in previously. My tether to the real world is severed by the transparent cylinder. Now, the only way to get back is to play the game until the very end.

Even my previous attire, lying on the floor discarded doesn't seem real. The glass distorts my vision slightly, pushing even further the idea that I've stepped into another universe.

"One minute before launch," the voice reminds me again, and I keep breathing.

In and out… in and out…

Behind the glass, a woman enters the room, stumbling almost as if she was pushed in. She jerks her head to the unseen abuser, before bending down obediently in front of the tube, her curly black hair obscuring her face from view.

Her hands dart out of her Avox uniform, picking up the shirt I had discarded without a second thought.

Something hidden, dormant for over a decade, stirs at the back on my mind.

It can't be…

I squint at the woman in front of me, my heart picking up speed once again. The glass of the tube reflects my own face at me, confused.

This literally can't be happening.

Involuntarily, my hands go up on the transparent surface in front of me.

The woman looks up. My sweaty palms leave prints on the glass of the tube as my breaths blur the view in front of me before I wipe at it aggressively, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this isn't a nightmare.

It's unmistakable now.

The eyes staring back at me mirror my own, her gaunt face outlined by a stubborn jaw, the same hair…

That's my sister looking at me.

"Chaya…"

She recognizes me too, immediately.

She mouths my name, anguish and surprise written all over her face.

I want to ask her so many things, I want to cry and scream and faint, because I never thought I'd see her again. And now, of all the times we could have crossed paths…

Fate is a cruel bitch.

I can barely hear the thirty-second warning over the pounding in my ears, and my own voice getting progressively louder as the metal plate beneath my feet starts stirring.

I want to know where my brother Venthan is. I want to know so many things, my focus completely derailed in favor of the frantic and agonizing panic that my fucking _sister is in front of me_.

As the tube ascends, I bang on the glass, screaming her name now. I don't even care who's watching, I just want thirty seconds with her. Just ten seconds.

The metal plate pushes me upwards, and I desperately crouch to memorize her face as she runs up to the glass. I can't even hear her.

The skin on my knuckles almost ruptures from the feverish knocking.

And then I'm up in the arena.

* * *

_**Timestamp – 10:59 AM**_

* * *

**Aderyn Klossner  
****District 10 Female, 15**

* * *

_**Timestamp - 10:59AM**_

* * *

I have to do everything in my power to not stumble off of the platform to my untimely and explosive death right then and there.

It has happened before, and it's never pretty.

Even though we didn't always see eye to eye, I'm sure my parents wouldn't want to see me splattered across the green turfs of weeds and flowers interspersed with pebbles that lie beyond my pedestal.

The wind blasts my hair sideways and while it's not in my face, tucked away expertly so as to not obstruct my vision, I can feel the chill at the back of my scalp.

I whip my head around wildly, burying the rising hysteria deep within my stomach, surveying my surroundings. My breaths come out shallow.

I don't think I've ever been so exhilarated in the worst way possible.

"Welcome to the thirteenth Hunger Games!" a booming voice announces, echoing.

Someone to my left vomits violently. I see the boy from District 8 shaking as he reflexively almost-jumps backwards from his own sickness. My arm shoots up towards him, in warning.

He sways on his pedestal, somehow keeping his footing.

I almost lose my mind right then and there, realizing that had he not retained his composure, I would have been covered in his remains. It takes all of my strength not to vomit too.

Maybe I'm imagining it, but the stench of death is already assaulting my nostrils.

"May the odds… be ever in your _favour_!" the disembodied voice reverberates.

Large convoluted metallic structures stand behind me, monstrous and glistening in the sun. With impeccable timing, lightbulbs switch on, as a gigantic wheel-looking construction turns steadily, approximately a kilometer behind me. The screech of old metal parts grinding against each other provides a steady wail that permeates the silence of the large clearing we're in.

Small houses to the left, painted in bright colors that look blinding in the summer light. All of the structures are surrounded by some kind of fence…

I've seen this on television once or twice.

It's… it's a fucking theme park.

Far behind my right shoulder, a seemingly broken-down carousel produces a crackling mournful tune. A giant metal horse with black mane is frozen mid-leap, its face twisted in an expression of wild terror and its painted eyes bulging.

I tear my eyes away, focusing on what's ahead of me.

We're all in a large circle, around a standard-looking Cornucopia, at the very least.

I spot Val as he turns his head around, catching my gaze. For once, he doesn't look relaxed and I think he's as thrown off by this arena as I currently am.

A fucking _theme park_… you gotta be kidding me…

A few steps behind him is a dirt path leading to a thicket of tall and ominous-looking trees, which form a wall of sorts. The darkness beyond them looks menacing, and I decide right then and there that if nothing else, Jess and I are staying far from that part of the arena.

A small dilapidated fence topped with barbed wire adds to the feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach. Something really bad is bound to come out of there.

Just the idea of running closer to that forest in order to grab some supplies chills me to the bone. The hair on my arms stands up.

I shiver.

The countdown is already at twenty seconds. Twenty seconds until this whole scenario degenerates into murder and death.

Just then, I think of the fact that it's strange of them to put the Cornucopia at what seems to be the edge of the arena. It's usually _smack_ in the middle…

I don't have time to think it over.

I strain my neck, looking back once again.

In large neon letters surrounded by more fluorescent lights, a "Welcome to Wonderland!" sign is hanging over the archway of an entrance.

I spot approximately nine or ten turnstiles underneath the archway. A painted mural of sorts is displayed on the fence surrounding the turnstiles, and when I squint, I spot terrifying wild animals, their maws open and ready to bite down on their next victims.

I can't see another easy entrance to the park, and I start frantically gesturing at Jess.

That's the bottleneck. So, it's either the creepy haunted-looking forest or the turnstiles, where bloodshed will inevitably occur.

We should try going around the park. Maybe… maybe there's another entrance there.

Jess is right near Val, and if anything, that's good news.

I'm sure he won't go after her. If I just run to get some supplies, she can circle around and we'll be golden.

She nods at me, throwing me a nervous thumbs up.

"Ten, nine, eight…"

I prepare to run faster than I've ever ran in my life.

"Seven, six, five…"

I spot a large backpack. Not too far in, so I don't risk getting attacked. It'll be enough for us to survive without the supplies that are inside the park for the time-being.

We'll be fine.

"Four, three, two, one."

_GONG_.

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:00 AM**_

* * *

**Roizer Loudon  
****District 6 Male, 14**

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:02 AM**_

* * *

I almost started crying when I saw Bex one pedestal to my right, and Cassius two to her right. We've been clustered together, and I thank whoever answered my prayers.

Bex's eyes dart quickly around, spotting Scout. He's standing next to the scary boy from District 2 on the opposite side, and as the gong rings, he doesn't budge when the taller tribute sprints away towards the Cornucopia.

His tear-filled eyes find mine.

This is scarier than anything I've ever seen in my life.

The sounds are overwhelming my senses, and the adrenaline causes me to twitch unpredictably, my limbs jerking out in various directions. I try to keep myself under control.

"Tickets!" Cassius yells out, searching frantically through his pockets. Bex and I hear, but so do half of all of the other tributes that haven't reached the Cornucopia yet.

"I'm going to get Scout, you guys run!" Bex yells back at the two of us, pointing insistently towards the archway with the scary clown. I nod, even as I'm shaking all over and I feel like my legs will give out.

She weaves through the running children, picking up some sort of weapon as she's running.

I can't see very well, my eyes blurred by panicked tears as Cassie knocks into me and starts dragging me closer to the archway.

The boy from Twelve rushes past us, paying us no mind. He somehow already has a backpack on his back, and without a word or so much as a glance in our direction, he jams his ticket into the small slot of the turnstile and jumps through, in his attempt to get away.

A medium-sized knife glistens in his hand. No blood on it, yet.

Cassie is breathing hard next to me, rubbing my back as we slow down a little bit. An arrow whizzes past us, hitting the wooden archway, just where Abel's head was. I can't even see where it came from but Cassie and I both scream, ducking to the ground.

Miraculously, no more arrows come our way.

We need to wait for Bex. Cassie isn't crying, but his eyes are bulging out in horror.

And suddenly he goes rigid all over.

I turn around just in time to see the boy from District 2 crouch down in front of the boy from District 11. It's almost friendly, the way he does it. Sword in hand.

The poor little boy hasn't even moved from his pedestal, and in a moment of terrible clarity I see the ugly teddy bear he still clutches to his chest.

Luther says something to him.

It's very brief, because I discern him shaking his head as he raises his sword and decapitates the child with one fluid motion.

I can see the spray of blood all the way from here, as it arcs away from the sword.

Almost as an afterthought, Luther twirls around, using the momentum of his previous swing and decapitates the teddy bear as well, before the lifeless body even hits the floor.

It would have been the most elegant thing I had ever seen, had it not been cold-blooded murder. The head rolls down, and in horror I see that the eyes are still open.

Cassie chokes down a sob.

It's so surreal that I push my head down into the grainy ground and imagine that I just hallucinated this horrible sequence. That somehow my mental state has worsened to include psychosis and walking nightmares as symptoms.

"I've lost sight of Scout-," Cassie pants next to me, before cutting himself off and screaming.

"Bex!"

I whip my head up, only to see Bex get struck down by Luther, too. My heart feels like it's going to give out, and I instinctively grab onto the grass in front of me.

My ally goes down hard, rolling over backwards and jutting out her legs just as Luther tries to stab her through the abdomen. Instead, she screams again, but I can't see where the Career landed his shot because Bex launches herself upwards, as though possessed.

She whips around, and I realize she's screaming Scout's name.

Distracted and seemingly uninterested in finishing the job, Luther doesn't even spare her a glance as he seems entranced by the action happening closer to the Cornucopia, allowing Bex to scurry away to a safe distance.

"Come on Bex," Cassie prays, an iron grip on my arm cutting off all circulation.

I scan the area frantically, for Scout, but can't see him either.

"Go, go, go!" Bex screams as she angles back while shaking her head, her shoulder bleeding profusely. Her hair is already a mess, pieces of grass sticking out in different angles. She bumps into the two of us, grunting with effort as she forces us to our feet and through the entrance of the amusement park. She's bleeding everywhere.

Silent tears flow down my face, as we stumble through the turnstiles.

"I couldn't see him. He ran _away_, somewhere," Bex spits out bitterly, but I can hear the despair in her voice. For the first time since I've met her, her voice hitches slightly.

"I don't know where he went, but one second I saw him and the other I went down, and… and he was gone."

Where could Scout possibly go?

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:13 AM**_

* * *

**Ambrox Linden  
****District 1 Male, 18**

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:01AM**_

* * *

It's crazy how everyone prepares you for this moment, and yet, I don't think anyone can truly explain the feeling you get when you're in the middle of the fray.

I run as quickly as my legs can carry me, and approach the Cornucopia just as Luther digs out a huge sword and chucks it at me. My knee-jerk reaction is to duck, thinking he wants to kill me.

But that makes no sense.

We're allied, and he gives me a thumbs up even as the sword soars through the air and I catch it by the handle.

I spare Luther a quick smile, and turn to survey my surroundings. The girls arrive soon-after, Morgana surprisingly in the lead.

I see Orla in the distance, challenging the weaker-looking girl from District 6 to a fistfight. The girl, Daisy, tries to evade Orla who trips her and kicks her in the shin while laughing haughtily. I grimace. I hate that bitch.

On the other side of the Cornucopia, I see utter disarray as the younger tributes are scrambling to get away. I'm not going to bother going after them just yet. My heart is pumping for violence, and I know my face must be flushed from excitement, but I need to keep it in for now.

That's not the angle I'm going for.

I turn back around, only to see Orla sprinting towards the Cornucopia, nursing her left hand. I glance back and see Daisy limping away as the District 12 girl holds her up, snarling at the District 8 boy to stay the fuck out of their way. Well, I guess that interaction did not go as expected, I think to myself, smirking a little bit at the idea of Orla finally getting the reality check she deserves.

"Hey, One, come help me, we need to get this stuff secure before the outer district scum scavenge it all!" Orla screams shrilly at me, and I oblige. As though we weren't here doing exactly _that_ while she was bullying someone who literally stands no chance.

I want to tell her, rather snarkily, that there are other bigger targets, but I cut myself off.

None of the other Careers pays her any attention, already having picked up a target in the ensuing chaos of the Bloodbath. I see Seeva on the defensive, closer to the pedestals, while Cira speeds towards the other tributes with animalistic speed.

Morgana is at Seeva's back, slicing at the District 5 tributes with precise strikes that impress me momentarily. I gotta admit, the girl's fucking _good_ at what she does.

The boy is blind, so I write him off as Morgana's kill as soon as my eyes leave her.

Luther is off somewhere.

I notice what's left of the boy from Eleven, lying in a heap near his pedestal. From what I can tell, he's in pieces.

"Hey, One, I'm talking to _you_, get your ass over here. I can't do everything by myself!" Orla's voice pierces my ear drums in the ensuing chaos. I don't even know how someone can sound so fucking annoying in the middle of the biggest murder-fest of the year.

I look at her, annoyed, and she raises her eyebrows while waving her hands impatiently as though I'm the one holding up the entire operation. She rolls her eyes at me, clearly unsatisfied by my apparently slowness, and digs into the pile in front of her.

That's when I make the decision for our entire group.

It's not like anyone explicitly told me _not_ to do it, either.

Orla's going down.

I already have a sword in my right hand, after all.

I don't answer her, but she sees me approaching and in that self-entitled little brain of hers, she probably thinks I'm there to help her out, or play the lacquey to her Capitol-born ass or something.

I see Luther, right arm covered in blood up to the elbow, smiling innocently at me. It's as though everything is going in slow-motion.

Orla doesn't see it coming, per say, because she's too intent on picking out the perfect weapon within the Cornucopia.

She only turns around when I'm _too_ close. She doesn't even have anything to protect herself with, but her eyes scream betrayal even as I purse my lips and hack at her midsection with all the precision Jasmyn taught me.

It doesn't even take that much force for me to slice Orla open, from her right hip to her ribs. It's a rather shallow cut, not enough to kill you, but sustaining this kind of injury this early in the Game means certain death.

That was my intention, because I'd literally rather trip on this sword and impale myself than have Orla in my alliance.

To her credit, Orla does not scream.

She falls to the ground, as though she almost expected it, her hand clamped to her side to stem the flow of the blood gushing out of her.

"Thought you'd be a screamer," I remark, approaching her slowly.

To her, I must be a looming figure of doom standing above her. The personification of all her nightmares. In the back of my mind, I register that it must look pretty intimidating and relish in that fact, because I fucking _hate_ bullies like her.

Especially those that have nothing to show for themselves. I cock my head a little bit, for effect, but she doesn't flinch.

I look over my shoulder and see that the girls are still busy chasing away some of the more daring tributes. Only Luther is watching me intently, but doing nothing to stop what I'm about to do.

Orla looks like she's about to ask me _why_ I'm doing this, but in her final moments, I think she understands. The accusatory glare she gives me holds so much reproach and hate that it stops me, if only for a second.

This is the moment I do it, and it feels exhilarating and _wrong_ but it's what I was meant to do. And I'm genuinely not sorry it's Orla.

"Any last words?" I offer, while angling my sword towards her head. From the way her eyes flit around, I expect her to apologize to her parents, or beg for mercy or _anything_ really.

"Fuck you," Orla spits at me, and with one swift motion, I swing my sword at her head.

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:07 AM**_

* * *

**Jessamine Law  
****District 11 Female, 16**

* * *

_**Timestamp - 11:03AM **_

* * *

I sprint my ass off to get to the rendezvous point Addie kept pointing at when the seconds were trickling by, and it felt like we were all going to explode from the sheer anticipation.

It's really shitty that we ended up at the literally opposite ends of the circle in terms of the tributes' pedestal placements.

But right now, it's like my mind is blocking out what's going on, focusing on the task at hand. My mind wonders, even as I objectively know I should be analyzing our surroundings.

I suddenly remember how we spoke at length two days prior, while sipping the delicious champagne-spiked orange juice I forced Addie to try. It's weird, because we're so close in age and we come from neighboring districts, and yet her life is just so different from mine. I think that's what interested me so much about her, and why we ended up allying in the first place.

She was so stressed out and I was too, but we have each other and that's pretty good. It's more than some of the other tributes have, and we hadn't scored too high or too low to paint an obvious target on either of our backs.

The plan was that we weren't going to get into any trouble, we were just going to go in, get one weapon, maybe a backpack, and run for the hills. There's no hills, but the plan still stands.

The arena looks like some sort of amusement park, and there seems to be lots of material to work with. Absentmindedly, I touch the small "Wonderland Ticket" in my pocket.

I think it might be for the turnstiles Addie was looking at, but it's not like we'll be going towards them any time soon.

Instead of running directly into the fray, I angle back, jogging and looking around wildly, to make sure I don't collide with one of the other tributes.

I do exactly what my brother Will told me.

I see Addie and smile at her encouragingly, but she doesn't see me. She's got her eyes set on the prize.

I spot the boy from Nine, Geoff, running alongside Addie. They're still about 50 meters away from the good stuff, the stuff we agreed Addie would take before running away. I didn't want her going any deeper, for fear of her getting attacked by the Careers.

My heart seizes up with joy, because it's _him_, not a Career or one of the crazy ones.

Of all the people she could be running alongside, Geoff is one of the better options. He never seemed like a threat, not so early on in the game, so I slow down a little, on the outskirts of the circle, watching Addie's feet hit the ground with methodical precision and determination.

We'll _make_ it, I know we'll make it.

I even smile in her direction like an absolute madwoman, sending her all the best vibes I can muster because we can _survive_ this Bloodbath, and then we'll be unstoppable.

All the Careers seem busy next to the Cornucopia, and I'm far enough that even a person with a long-range weapon will have a hard time hitting me.

Addie's gonna make it, I _know_ it.

Suddenly, I hear the first scream of pain, and all my assumptions about this blowing over evaporate right before my eyes. I frantically search for the source of it, and see Daisy, the girl from 6, being kicked by Orla.

_It's none of my business_, I remind myself. Just gotta keep watching Addie. Focus on Addie.

I turn my eyes back to my ally.

She's lying on the ground, struggling to get up.

Oh no. What…

Geoff stands over her, his legs shaking. He doesn't seem all there, he looks _so_ scared, but when Addie raises her arm weakly to protect her face, he reacts as though she tried to attack him.

He seemed so kind in training.

My brain keeps supplying random facts as I struggle to make sense of what's going on. He was the same age as me, and he even smiled at us both, when I kept succeeding on the monkey-bars course. He looked mature and he had his allies, the other two boys, with him.

I remember eavesdropping in on one of their conversations, and discovered that he volunteered for another younger boy just because it felt like the right thing to do. He said that at his interview too…

What seems like ages ago, I joked with Addie that they'd make a cute couple, what with the curly hair and all that, just to make her uncomfortable. Partly to make her forget her awkwardness with Val.

Geoff wheels around, almost in a trance, and bashes Addie on the head with the spiked baton he picks up from the ground.

She wasn't even reaching for him, she was reaching for the bag splayed a mere few feet ahead of her.

But he hit her, defenseless.

The shriek that escapes my lips sounds inhuman.

I don't stop screaming until my throat literally feels like it's being shredded.

I don't even have the state of mind to realize I am attracting too much unwanted attention, but during those agonizing seconds of pure terror, I can't bring myself to care.

At the edge of my vision, I can see people running, people getting impaled by sharp objects, people throwing bags at their allies who sprint towards the trees or the metallic rides that glisten in the sun. But it's as though I've got tunnel vision, only eyes to see Addie convulse a few times before lying still. Her beautiful hair matted with blood.

I know I'm in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, because tears spring to my eyes, and I have to concentrate all my willpower onto not collapsing onto the pavement I've reached. I'm sweating all over, ripping at my hair, trying to do anything to release the tension that feels like it's going to explode my heart.

I'm shaking so _fucking_ hard.

"No! No, no no no," I keep repeating under my breath, even as the hiccups threaten to drown me completely. It literally feels like my brain is short-circuiting, and I vomit up any food I managed to eat before the flight here.

Addie lies on the ground lifeless, as Geoff collapses on his knees, and then backwards.

My ally…she's…my friend, she's gone!

Why… I don't understand why he had to kill her. I only looked away for a second. She didn't have to die, so why did he kill her right now?

Addie's gone.

I can't seem to grasp that fact as my hands reach out uselessly towards her, even though I know in my heart of hearts that she's dead.

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:05 AM**_

* * *

**Geoff Windsor  
****District 9 Male, 16**

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:05AM**_

* * *

Fuck… I … I fucking killed her. I didn't mean it.

Oh god, I didn't mean it. I don't know why I did that.

I choke and drop the weapon, scurrying and tripping backwards. I didn't think this was going to be the way things went. I don't even know … what I was thinking.

She… I didn't see her running near me. I was focusing on the running.

I… I don't know why she scared me so much. All I could think was that she was going to take _my_ bag. _My_ bag that I needed to get to my allies. She pushed past me, and I thought she was going to kill me. It's like all my muscles seized up and my vision went red from panic.

She didn't even have a weapon… how could she _kill_ me? How could she?

I didn't have to hit her. Maybe I can get her up.

She didn't even see me coming until she hit the floor.

I look over at her, and the ringing in the base of my brain crescendos into something unbearable.

I… I can't touch her, her eyes are open and she's dead.

I didn't mean for this to happen. Oh by the gods, more than ever before, more even than when my mom died for my stupid mistake with the apple, I want to take back what I've done.

This can't be happening.

I experience the next sequence of events almost as though I am an outsider, an observer removed entirely from the situation.

I look around, and it feels like I'm under water. The glistening structures. The swirl around me as my head spins from the adrenaline and fear.

I see Logan and Jean, holding each other and screaming at me to move away from the bloodbath. They're both standing at the edge of the pavement, where the road becomes overgrown grass once again. Logan is full-on crying, tears making his eyes seem even more brilliantly blue than ever.

I wish I could clap him on the back and tell him everything is going to be fine, but it's not_, it's never going to be fine_ because I killed this innocent girl.

I … please, oh god, can anyone believe me that I didn't mean to?

I want to survive this. I really do, right? So why have my legs turned to lead?

Why can't I move away from this girl… this corpse of a girl who was living and breathing mere minutes ago?

She did nothing wrong to me. She didn't even attack me.

Something inside me snaps as my body goes into full lock-down. The screams around me hurt my ears, and I know I've contributed to this horror, I've caused it I've caused it and I can't un_do_ this…

I'm just a fucking kid, a fucking kid with no clue what to do. A fucking kid that just killed someone. I want to cry so bad, but I'm just there, gawking in horror at what I've done.

I turn around and I see the other girl who was with her in training, screaming. She covers her mouth, choking down a sob just as a scream tears itself from my throat. It's as though we're both stuck in this hell, together, as though screaming and crying will help anything at all.

There's a part of me that wants to run, and I genuinely try to _will_ my brain into making my limbs move, react, do anything that isn't just half-sitting half-standing here like a scarecrow in the middle of this field of death and chaos.

I know I need to go protect my allies, that's _why_ I went into this mess in the first place, right?

But Jessamine, I remember her name in a sudden moment of clarity, just keeps crying, even as she runs away towards the park. I can't see her anymore, physically, but her face paralyses me.

It's a look of absolute horror, grief and failure. I killed her ally, but it looks as though I just shattered all her hopes along with that.

Can't she see I didn't want to kill? I'm… I'm so fucking sorry.

Oh god, I want to die.

That's fucking _it_ for me.

That's when I know it. I know for a fact I can't move from here. I've lost my mind, I've lost any power over my own body and the only thing left is to accept that I'm dying here today.

My reptilian brain, the one responsible for the way I reacted in killing Addie instead of acting rationally, awakens for the second time today. It senses someone approaching from behind, but even now, I can't bring myself to move. I lose track of time, because all I can see are the bright colors surrounding me, and the wailing sound inside my head.

I've done more bad than good in this world, and I've doomed so many people with my stupidity, my brashness and my lack of self-restraint and knowing _that_ breaks something inside of me.

My mom taking my punishment and dying for it…

My own arrogant certainty that I was going to make it out of here, enough to make me volunteer for an absolute stranger…

Killing Addie for no fucking reason at all…

All these feelings become a storm that eclipses all the other noises, the visual input that bombards my eyes.

With even more certainty, I realize I _want_ to die.

I don't know who does it, but my wish is granted swiftly and the last thing I see are my allies backing away into the woods together. Logan is still crying, clutching onto Jean. At least they're together.

The last thought that is truly mine as I feel a blade being drawn across my throat, releasing my blood to seep in spurts onto the pavement, is how the _fuck_ did this go to shit so quickly?

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:08 AM**_

* * *

**Valentino Ricci  
****District 10 Male, 18**

* * *

_**Timestamp – 11:08 AM **_

* * *

She's still alive.

I know she's still alive because I literally run through the goddamn bloodbath to get to her.

She has to be.

Somewhere at the periphery of my vision, I saw Salamandra pick up a bow and a quiver of arrows, but she disappeared in this chaos. The last time I saw her, she was sprinting in the direction of the huge spiraling rides in the distance.

It was maybe minutes, maybe seconds ago.

But my concern doesn't lie with _her_, right now.

There are screams everywhere. I see people falling down, but somehow, I get to my District partner with no resistance.

I skid on the ground, falling to my knees in front of her body.

"Come on Addie, come on," I mutter under my breath, propping up her head gently and brushing strands of hair out of her face, like she's a little kid.

My hands hover over her, trying to think of _any_ way that I can help. Her eyes are still open, and the muscles tremors are subsiding, and it hits me that she's not breathing.

The screams around me don't stop, but I'm not focused on them. If someone bothered to bash me on the head and end it all, I wouldn't even be able to stop them.

I look down, swallowing the pain.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. Her story wasn't supposed to end now.

We had made eye contact before the bloodbath had started, and there had been no hesitation in her eyes. She was _supposed_ to run away safely with Jessamine.

I had imagined that our tense conversation from yesterday would be nullified by a friendly reunion during the Games.

And yes, it's selfish, but I just _wish_ I could get some closure on this.

There's really no time to process this, as I set her down delicately back on the ground. I hadn't even grabbed a weapon in my haste to get to her, as she was struck down.

If she had lived, this would all have been a different story.

But she's _dead_, and I stand up, my eyes flitting over to the side. I look up just in time to see her murderer collapse to the ground, his blood seeping out of him. Cira stands above him, her knife shimmering with his blood.

She cut deep, from the way his head lolls back and the blood pools on the ground from his neck. I look away, disgusted.

Her eyes look sad but focused.

"I'm sorry this happened."

"I'm sorry too," I sigh. I don't even know if she hears me over the wind and the screams.

I don't even find the energy in me to feel angry. A normal person would have probably raged that they were robbed of the opportunity to avenge their friend's death.

But at this point, I'm just drained. I'm relieved that Addie's murderer is dead.

Now, I just need to accomplish what I set out to do, or die trying. Except I can't die.

For Addie, for my district, but also for my family who needs me alive.

"You need to go," Cira tells me quietly, pointing her blade at me.

"Yeah, but not yet," I answer, as if on autopilot. I ignore Cira's questioning gaze as I turn my back to her.

Only a crazy person would do that, but… if she wanted to kill me, she would have done it already.

I spare one last painful look at Addie, and set off at a slow pace towards the Cornucopia.

I know for a fact that what I'm looking for is inside. Salamandra couldn't make this easy for me. As I go, I pick up the spiky baton that is soaked in Addie's blood, and keep walking, even as Cira calls out after me.

I fully expect resistance, but I get to the Cornucopia unimpeded. The Careers are probably still busy searching for stragglers, so I don't waste any time and start searching. I find what I need almost instantly, since it's basically a black briefcase.

Just as Salamandra described it. I open it, and surely enough, everything's in there. I empty its contents into my pockets before closing the briefcase. Just in case things don't go according to plan. That's what she said to do.

I grab it by the handle and get ready to sprint away before I get noticed, but I hear voices approaching the Cornucopia. There's no getting out of a fight now. Once again, the feeling of profound emotional exhaustion takes over me, even as my heart's rhythm picks up.

I peak out.

"Everything alright, Seeva?" Ambrox asks, approaching his ally. "It looks as though you saw a ghost."

She looks troubled.

Truly and profoundly shaken.

She's also the only one not holding anything pointy.

Without further ado, I run out and swing at her legs, bringing her down.

She's strong, but I have the element of surprise on my side. She falls hard and drops her club, so I gain the advantage very quickly.

My arm goes around her neck almost immediately and I have her in a chokehold, using her as a body shield to protect myself against any attacks they might think of.

I can feel Seeva's heartbeat hammering at her ribcage. She doesn't make a sound.

"Now, you'll let me go on my _merry_ way, and we can all go unharmed," I tell them calmly, surprised at the evenness of my voice. I'd never be caught dead using this kind of tone with anyone from my District. It sounds alien, unkind and wrong.

"Or, we can kill you," Ambrox counters calmly, swinging his sword from side to side. I see the Four girl's headless body on the ground behind him, and it's not difficult to add both facts together.

Swallowing, I turn my eyes back to him.

"You could, but you'd have to go through her."

"I bet you all the cookies in the Cornucopia that I can cut him away from Seeva before he even notices," Luther exclaims, readying himself.

Ambrox stops him.

"Fine, you're right, let's be diplomatic about this," Ambrox says, rolling his eyes as though this is taking a monumental effort, and I can feel the tension easing up in Seeva's shoulders.

She doesn't think I'm evil enough to kill her, even though I realistically could snap her neck. She's more scared of her allies sacrificing her so early-on in the game, to get to me.

"I mean, if I remember correctly your score of seven might have been slightly underwhelming, but from what I'm seeing, we just got a space that freed up." He motions behind him, at Orla's body.

I can clearly see he's stalling.

He knows I'm not a killer.

All these machinations going on in these people's heads…

I decide to give him what he wants. If I need to fight, I'll fight.

"Nah, I'm good. I've already had a bad day," I respond, pushing Seeva roughly towards the group. "Wouldn't want to relieve you of another more _competent_ member."

"Let's kill him anyways," Ambrox decides and I ready myself, when Cira steps forward.

She hesitates only for a second.

"It's not the time."

"Step aside Cira," Ambrox spits out and Morgana lurches forward, eager to please her ally. Blood on her weapon too.

I stare at her, blankly.

She might be trained, but she'll sustain enough damage before she can take me down. I'll guarantee it.

Instead of stepping aside, Cira actually touches Ambrox's shoulder. The tension skyrockets to unbearable levels.

"Please just trust me that this _isn't_ the time," she whispers, and he turns to her, annoyed.

"Seriously Ambrox, we don't _have_ to kill him right now," Seeva echoes, her voice low.

Just like that, four cannons resonate. One of them is for Addie, I think bitterly.

None of the people in front of me even flinches.

"He won't even be a bloodbath. And besides, we can just catch him later."

"Fine, but he leaves the suitcase," Ambrox agrees finally, and I see his eyes narrow as he assesses me from head to toe. I extend my arm in a peaceful gesture, and set the briefcase down in front of me.

"Go," Cira says, nodding at me. I walk backwards for a few steps, before turning around.

"The big dick energy on you, pretty boy… it won't save you forever," Ambrox calls after me tauntingly.

I walk leisurely away from the Careers and into the park, when the insane rhythm of my heart slows as I get further and further away from danger.

I feel just about ready to collapse.

I'm greeted by a slow clap coming from none other than Salamandra Mitch, perched on top of the fence. It sounds jarring and wrong.

"You motherfucker, that was smooth."

* * *

_**Timestamp - 11:20AM**_

* * *

**Mara Griffith  
****District 5 Female, 18**

* * *

_**Timestamp - 11:25 AM**_

* * *

Andy's bleeding all over me and I'm crying so hard I can barely keep myself upright, let alone hold up another injured human being.

I somehow hauled him through the entrance and we've been on the run. We've passed the archway long ago, weaving in between abandoned boutiques and toy stores, reaching the base of one of the large convoluted railways that is erected in what seems to be the middle of the park.

Four cannons sounded, not long ago. Four dead.

He's struggling to speak, and I don't even have to look to know that bitch from Seven probably severed his trachea.

Frankly, I don't know how he's still breathing.

"Please," he chokes out hoarsely. It comes out wheezing, air escaping through the gaping hole in his neck.

I know what that means.

I realize I'm holding a huge dagger in my shaking hand, but I shut that thought down faster than the speed of lightning.

I'm not doing this. There's still a way to fix this.

As though mocking me, the dagger glistens in the sun, reflecting small crystalline spots of lights on the toy store behind us.

The weapon. That's what I went in for.

I told Andy to wait one second. That I wouldn't be long.

But Morgana intercepted me. She was so fast.

As I tried to escape, I led her right to him and even when I tried fighting her, he somehow got injured, stabbed like a pincushion through and through. I should have just led him away… stupid _fucking_ Mara for thinking anything would work in our favour.

The worst part is that it wasn't anything personal. She held no grudge against us, but she needed this done.

I hear footsteps somewhere behind us, and my brain goes back into panic mode.

"Andy, we need to hide," I sob, his weight sagging on me completely. My arm muscles strain but I pay no attention to the rising pain.

Instead, I notice that my entire side is soaked in his blood, and look down in horror. There's just so much more than I'd ever expected to see in my life.

I don't even know if he's still awake or if he's passed out from blood loss.

"I need to help you, I'll help you," I keep repeating like a broken record. It's the only thing keeping me sane right now.

I lay Andy down on some overgrown patch of grass behind a particularly well-hidden boutique. Without wasting a second, I jump over the border, inside the little house, rummaging through all of the drawers, trying to find something that will stem the blood flow.

I can patch him up. That's something people do all the time.

And… And then I'll just get sponsors and he'll be fine. There's so many jokes he can tell about this place. I'll just describe it to him, like I did in the Capitol.

And if we die, we die together, and it'll be a _hell of a ride_. Because it's a fucking theme park! Because I need this to be infused with a little bit of fucking humor before it all goes to shit. I bite down on my bottom lip to prevent myself from sobbing louder from the rising hysteria.

There's a choked gurgle and I run back out, with some toys that I rip apart in my haste to get to the stuffing. There's cotton inside of toys, and that absorbs liquids like nothing else.

I fall to my knees, pushing the stuffing up to Andy's neck and side, but there's still so much blood.

It takes him so much effort, but he shakes his head. His chest starts spasming, and I think it's from all of the blood he swallowed or choked on, but it starts getting worse.

I've heard of people drowning in their own blood.

"I just wanted to bring you home," I cry, my voice sounding childish and so very heartbroken. "You deserved to come back."

I kiss him on the forehead. His skin is clammy and there's just so much blood smeared everywhere. I take his hand into mine, and he smiles. It's more of a grimace, his teeth stained in red. He's in so much pain, and he's fading fast.

I look up at the sky, helpless and prostrate as though I'm praying. I might as well be.

My words come out in barely a whisper.

"I just need some fucking help. Please. Somebody."

Another cannon rings loud and clear.

* * *

_**Timestamp - 11:35AM**_

* * *

_Notes: (crickets chirping) (readers blocking me) (sirens in the distance)_

_Wow, so this was … upsetting. To me, at the very least. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter for this start of the Games. While I thought there were many heartbreaking moments, I'm still really proud that I kicked off the Games after 169K and something close to 9 months of writing. Please let me know what you thought, your opinion means everything. At worst, you can scream at me about the unfairness of it all… at best, we can catharsis together. I didn't want people to check the note for the deceased-list, so I'll be doing eulogies in the upcoming chapter!_

_Can you tell me which death was the most upsetting? For me, all of them were, but I am really hoping I did justice to all of the characters. Also, I'm really hoping this chapter wasn't too confusing... I personally had a really hard time conveying that most of the events are actually happening at the same time, so HOPEFULLY the timestamps help a little bit. Please let me know if stuff made sense haha!_

_On a different and less sad note, you got a very small glimpse of what the arena is like, but I'm incredibly excited to show you what I've got in store. Spoiler alert, it ain't gonna be pretty! Dare I even say… things might get trippy and whimsically horrifying… I can't wait for next chapter. _

_Peace and love. _


	38. Chapter 34: Day 1 - Picking Up Pieces

**Day 1**

* * *

**Sparkle Aire  
****District 12 Female, 18**

* * *

"Come on!" I urge Daisy on, when she whimpers as I drag her away.

She's limping pretty badly.

We can't go any faster, because Orla really messed up Daisy's ankle. It wasn't even that bad of a kick, but Daisy's bones are just… she's just so _fragile_. Maybe it's the malnutrition or the years of drug abuse, but I'm concerned that she won't be able to keep walking for much longer.

And that's not an option right now. _Definitely_ not an option.

When I arrived, their one-sided confrontation didn't last very long. I thought I was going to punch Orla right through her head, as I arrived screaming and throwing rocks at the stupid bitch.

I know a coward when I see one, and Orla didn't want to mess with me.

We booked it out of there as soon as I scared Orla off. She'll probably be rolling around in food and supplies, until one of her allies decides to kill her, if she's not dead already. Meanwhile, we'll grovel with no supplies, no support and no proper hideout.

A spike of jealousy runs through me, and I scowl.

We're alive. That's enough for now, I remind myself before I go down _that_ road.

The air isn't still, not even for a second. The rides around us keep moving, adding to the uncomfortable impression that there's always _someone_ there at the edge of your vision, flitting around and casting shadows as the unending lightbulbs disappear from your view momentarily.

It's as though this entire arena was designed to creep the living shit out of us. It most definitely _was,_ but you know… why couldn't _we_ be the year that got a nice cute meadow or something?

Daisy hisses in pain as her foot catches on a particular rock and I frown, surveying our surroundings for what feels like the billionth time.

I'm fucking paranoid, but can you _blame_ me?

We're moving at a snail's pace and I know for a fact that any one of those Careers could catch up to us. I saw what they did to those other kids.

I only really saw two people die, but from the way people kept screaming, I'm sure we'll get the whole picture soon enough when the darkness sets.

Unwillingly, my mind wonders back to the events that transpired mere hours before.

_We're still barely ten feet from the fence, which will hide us from view once we enter the amusement park. _

_Still out in the open. _

_And my heart is beating at a thousand miles an hour, thinking about the Three girl that I saw escaping with a bow and arrow. _

_She could finish us off easily, right about now. _

_I lost sight of Orla a long time ago._

_Doesn't matter. The plan is that we're getting the hell out of dodge. _

_But curse my morbid curiosity, or maybe it's instinct… I look back, because of someone's piercing scream. _

_It's the girl from Eleven, who falls on the ground and looks like she's going completely batshit. Nearing the Cornucopia, the girl who I'm guessing was her ally lies dead. District 11 stops herself though, picking herself up and sprinting in the same direction as we're going. She passes us, jamming her ticket into the slot of the turnstiles before clearing them and speeding off. If she had wanted to, she could have tried to attack us. _

_Shit. We are directly in the path of those running for the park, and I don't like it one bit. _

_The cold sweat follows the trail of my spine as I roughly keep shoving Daisy to safety._

_And then I see Cira, slicing through the neck of the boy who is slumped near the other girl's corpse. _

_His allies escape to the woods, crying. I grab hold of Daisy, protectively. _

_My eyes widen as Cira stumbles away from the boy she just killed, her hands full of blood. It's horrifying that I can see this with such intimate detail, but the blood… it stains everything so brightly. It's brighter even than the roof tiles on some of the shacks inside of the park._

_She flayed open his neck like it was the easiest thing in the world, her face set in a grim mask of determination._

_And that's when the whole _damned_ plan goes right out the window. _

_My rage suppresses any logic and fear. _

_How could she _possibly_ think she has the right to take someone's life like that? _

_Her pretty lips scrunch up just a tiny bit, supressing the natural reaction of disgust from surfacing. For the cameras no doubt. _

_It's all a show to her. _

_I let go of Daisy's small frame, a growl escaping my lips. I want to kill her. I'm insignificant to _her_, because she doesn't even spare a glance my way and I want to show her that she didn't deserve any of the nice things she had while I grovelled in the dirt and misery. She's the kind of person that deserves to rot in this god-forsaken place._

_She won't last in these games, I'll make sure of that… _

_I don't even have a weapon, but I'm not thinking straight. We're about to have a motherfucking _throwdown_, and if I die, at least I die exposing her as the hypocritical privileged bitch that she is. _

_And… and –_

"_Sparkle, please!"_

_Daisy's tear-filled eyes imploringly plead with me, as she stands there shivering. _

_I realize I've absentmindedly started jogging towards the bloodbath, undoing the progress we've made. My fists are clenched to my sides. My ally doesn't even have to say anything else, the wind making her pants stick to her skeletal legs. _

_I suddenly become hyper-aware of the fact that now is not the time to indulge in my fantasies, just to satisfy my feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. _

Keep it together Sparkle_, I berate myself, shaking my head as chaos rages around us. I have to choose now, what kind of person I'm going to be. _

_It could cost me my life but more importantly, Daisy would die here and now. I'd die, and she wouldn't even stand a chance. _

_I make my decision._

"Sparkle…" Daisy pants, almost falling on the ground, "can we … please… take a break?"

"Soon," I answer brusquely, quickening our pace just to spite the world. I whip my head around, my braided hair hitting my cheek, when I think I see someone running through the small alleyway to our left.

Once again, it's just the wind. For fuck's sake.

The park is huge and convoluted.

I haven't seen any actual tributes the way we went, but I'm still not satisfied.

We lapse into uncomfortable silence, which is punctuated by Daisy's uneven breathing and my own irregular strained noises as the events of today settle on me like some heavy and suffocating mantle.

We arrive at a cleared area, with some sand and swings in the middle.

It's a playground, I realize dumbly.

I still feel too exposed, but Daisy practically collapses onto the bench and starts dry-heaving, probably from all of the stress, pain and running over the past two hours.

After shoving her for the best part of this time, I awkwardly step backwards, letting her have some space. I look away, my eyes drifting towards our surroundings.

Always assessing.

I already feel tired of this _bullshit_.

The sanded circle is surrounded by a cement border, decorated with flowers, leaves and bumblebees. Some of the paint flaked off, but it still gives the playground a cute appearance. You wouldn't think they'd pay attention to that kind of detail, but of course they do. They're the fucking Gamemakers.

At the entrance, there's a sign.

I squint at it, trying to read it from the bench. My calves burn from the walking and while I'm not injured, minimizing my movement might be a good idea, considering we have no food or _you know_… a stable caloric intake in the foreseeable future.

We didn't risk grabbing anything from the Cornucopia and getting skewered for our efforts, after all…

"Kids must be supervised by an adult guardian," I mutter to myself, then smirk at the sign.

"Guess you're under my supervision now, huh Daisy?"

Usually so eager to hang onto every word I say, my ally doesn't even look up.

I get up to walk around the large wooden painted structure in the middle of the playground, observing it. It's got a mast in the middle and a large plastic flag hanging from it, as though billowing in the wind. A yellow slide is at the right, and I have to resist the childish and unyielding urge to clamber up the structure.

We didn't have any of these in District 12, our parks made of rusty metal poles and dirty garbage bags children used to sift through.

But in District 1, I remember things like these existing. The playgrounds weren't as intricate or colorful, but…

I can almost see the children chasing each other, laughing and screaming in delight. Some pretending to hoist up the fake flag on this pirate ship. Cira probably was one of those kids, while I never got the chance to really enjoy it before it was ripped away. Even with this realization, my anger is subdued.

"Hey Daisy, you ever have stuff like this back home?" I ask curiously, walking back towards the girl. She shudders, grabbing at her ankle. Doesn't say a word.

I kneel in front of her.

"Hey, I know you're scared."

I try adopting my most motherly voice, grimacing at how foreign it sounds.

Daisy looks up and her eyes are red with tears. Her irises are so large and blue that I can see the contrasting tiny blood vessels branching out around them, as her panicked gaze searches my face for any reassurance.

I smile at her steadily, caressing her chin. She doesn't smile back, but instead leans into my touch, like a scared little puppy.

"I'm sorry I was so harsh with you," I say, sighing.

What the fuck happened to being an unapologetic bad bitch? Urgh.

"I was just… _really_ frustrated, and I got carried away. But we're safe now. And look! We even have a park all to ourselves."

I'm vying for having the higher ground up above, using the slide as a quick escape route and already planning to build some kind of crude trap system around it. But Daisy's eyes wonder to the chair-sized mushroom pods that seem to be sprouting from the ground.

However many years ago, toddlers would have had a field day jumping from one to the other, avoiding the sand like it's lava, and I smile in earnest at that thought.

Or maybe this park is just a re-creation of the real thing, and no one ever really got to enjoy it at all.

I notice real mushrooms peeking out of the ground, their little hats pointing upwards. Like small buttons, in the green grass. Peculiar.

Little by little, the tension releases from my entire being.

We have a bit of time before shit goes down, again. No harm in hanging out a little bit.

I help Daisy to the swings, and she sits down on one carefully, making sure to not put too much pressure on her injured ankle. The shin looks bruised, but the joint actually started getting inflamed.

I push the swing for her to gain momentum without having to use her foot. The tight-lipped smile she throws back at me is pure gratitude.

She doesn't know it, but having her around…

She saved my life. I realize it now.

She saved me from doing something incredibly stupid back there, just because I had nothing to lose. The sum of everything that I am, everything that I ever endured, would have been extinguished because of some petty jealousy-ridden desire to hurt someone who got what was stolen from me. It's so weird to admit it, and I chuckle.

From here, we can hear the soar of the rides in the distance, but at the very least, we're far enough for the unsettling music and the lights to melt into the background.

Everything's attenuated, and I like it that way.

"Daisy…" I start again, sitting down on the swing next to her and grabbing her hand as we swing in synchrony. "You know you're really cool, right?"

She giggles. It's a small and pitiful sound, but at least it's something.

"Thanks, for not abandoning me back there."

"I wasn't going to," I reply, but the truth is that for a moment I was considering it.

"We'll get _her_, if you want," Daisy says after a while, as though reading my thoughts.

"We don't have to think about that right now," I reassure her, pushing myself off and swinging higher than she is.

* * *

**Cassius Fleur  
****District 3 Male, 15**

* * *

_Bing, boop boop, blam. _

"Congratulations, roll for another chance to win!"

"Shut the fuck up," Bex moans as the machine repeats the same stupid message for the tenth time in a row. A small pixelated alien dances on screen.

Roizer stands idly in a corner, as far away from the machine as possible.

He's the one who triggered it in the first place, and judging from his guilt-ridden expression, he couldn't look sorrier if he tried.

The little lights keep blinking insistently and I have to peel my eyes away from the screens around me to focus on the task at hand. The dark room is saturated in neon blues, greens and pinks, as the trill of the dozens of claw cranes, video games and pinball machines fill the stuffy space. This reminds me so much of the run-down machines we used to fight for with my friends in District 3, trying to jam our tokens in before the others in order to play our favourite game.

On a good day, Rye would come along, and we'd play until the owner kicked us out. But this place seems like the real deal… a _whole_ building whirring with life of these game machines.

Maybe if we hadn't just escaped the bloodbath mere hours ago, I'd find this _awesome_. But Bex is still bleeding pretty badly through the shitty patch job I managed with some bandages we found at a popcorn stand.

Why they would have medical-grade bandages at a popcorn stand is concerning in and of itself, but I'm not like… _complaining_.

Just trying to understand the logic, that's all.

Reality is fabricated here, so it's not much of a surprise.

To be fair, the moment I saw the arena, I knew we were super-fucked. Not just normal-fucked in the sense that we were all going to _die_, but in a more insidious awful way that just gets under my skin.

I haven't actually vocally expressed it, because we've got much larger problems at hand. But the fact still _is_ that the more we kept walking, the more hotdog stands I saw, with fries and ketchup bottles just lying around like it's our God-given right to eat that shit for free.

Vending machines found at each intersection, filled with candy bars and chip bags.

Freezers in the larger open-air balcony food courts we barrelled through to get to the arcade venue we're currently cooped up in. All of them hooked up to electricity and fully functional, from what I can tell. If I was a betting man, I'd say some of them are stocked up with food.

The Gamemakers don't want us starving to death.

They want bloodshed.

And I know this means that this will be a long and violent Hunger Games. I shudder, the implications of it all crashing down for the second time today. From my limited experience, that's never great, for non-Career districts.

Bex tries moving, more blood spilling from the wound.

My hands hover over her.

"Stop," I tell her again, "we need something to stitch it together… because like, you'll just keep losing blood."

"I'm fine," she insists, but as she gets up, she has to grab a neighboring machine to stay steady. The machine blares to life.

"Hit and run!"

_Ding ding ding_.

Bex groans, settling back on the carpeted floor. The cut is shallow and thankfully the blade didn't hit any major arteries, but it's still making her lightheaded from the blood loss.

And now we're squatting in the back of a dark arcade games hall, one ally missing.

I can see that it's eating away at Bex, making her restless. She wants to go back out there, to look.

"Where's S-Scout, you think?" Roizer asks, clearly the same gnawing thought on his mind.

"I promised him we'd play cards again… I _promised_," Bex whispers, and she sounds so broken. "We'll find him, guys."

I hate the way it almost sounds like a question. I swallow, trying to figure out any way I can spin this into a positive situation. But there's really nothing.

I don't know for how long we sit there, with Roizer hovering around restlessly, but Bex's wound actually crusts over a little bit. She can't move that side of her body without blood trickling through, but at the very least it stopped leaking steadily when I change her bandages.

I try to not let my inner panic show, but from Bex's unimpressed deadpan stare as I rewrap her bandages, she doesn't give me much to work with. I'm _trying_, but I've never felt so small and only fucking fifteen years old with a limited life perspective, in my whole life.

No more cannons sounded for a while, though, so that's reassuring.

And we need to know what else this building has to offer.

"Hey Roizer…"

His eyes go as wide as saucers. It's as if he knows what I'm about to ask of him.

"Can you… Do you think you could just go and explore what's around? I'm…" my stomach grumbles just to underscore that point, for good measure, "we're all probably hungry, and I'm sure there's a vending machine somewhere, and other stuff…"

I gesticulate at Bex, who is about to protest.

"I'd go but I can't leave her here."

The truth is that I'm not _sure_ I could muster the courage to go. I'm not sure I could be stuck alone with my thoughts, right now.

Maybe this is an excuse or maybe it's the truth, and I honestly couldn't say. But I'm sure as hell not leaving Bex with a kid who looks like he's going to vomit any time he sees the dark stain on the carpet.

"Okay…" he finally manages.

I can see his throat working, as he swallows and sets his jaw in determination. He runs off and Bex's worried gaze follows him as he disappears in the darkness behind more screens.

"He'll be fine," I reassure her, patting her hand gently. I don't know why I've suddenly turned into the goddamn resident therapist, assuring everyone that things are going to work out when they most certainly will not, but…

They have work out _somewhat_ for now, right?

Not even fifteen minutes later, Roizer stumbles back with a bunch of bags in his arms and I can't even express how glad I am that he's okay. The hammering in my chest quells, and I look at Bex victoriously. I only see exhausted relief in her dark eyes as she looks Roizer over from head to toe to make sure he's not injured.

_See, didn't die!_ I almost want to say out loud, but that's just… _so_ insensitive on so many levels. What the hell, Cas…

"There's – there's not much in terms of… ac-actual food," Roizer starts, shoving the chips our way eagerly. "I i-investigated the wh-whole arcade. There's a sm-sm-small fast food booth … at the b-b-ack."

He whistles nervously, and I nod encouragingly at him. "And a d-d-oor to the roof."

Bex immediately tries to get up.

"Stop, where do you think you're going?" I huff, trying to block her way. But even in her injured state, she somehow anger-steps around me.

"Bex, please just, one sec!"

"We've been here long enough and the anthem's any minute, if we haven't missed it."

Roizer and I both jog up to her, as even now her strides outpace us both.

I try to take her hand, but she jerks it out.

"I just need to know, _okay_?"

I'm taken aback by the brusqueness of her tone.

I nod resigned, and the apology in her eyes is enough.

I just… I don't _want_ to see. But we should. We can't live in denial forever.

We make our way to the roof of the building, pushing through a creaking old locked door to find ourselves under a darkening sky. I have no idea what time it is, but we must have stayed hidden for at least five or six hours, after our frantic escape.

That makes sense, with how Bex's injury already started scabbing over a little bit. I internally congratulate myself on my pseudo-accurate observations. Not gonna lie, it's kinda nice that despite not knowing what the hell I'm doing, I'm getting the time sort-of right. _That'll _be useful when we need to actual fend ourselves from danger.

As I resist the urge to smack myself in the face, my eyes land on the scene in front of me. The tightness in my chests lets off, only slightly.

The wind ruffles my hair, and I exhale properly for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

The amusement parks looks beautiful, at such an altitude. The air carries hints of sweetness and my stomach aches for the kind of food down below. I let in a deep clean breath, savoring the different smells, and there's too many to count. The musical roar of the carnival no longer sounds as threatening and scary, from up above. And somehow, all of the greasy stains, the tent flaps and the faded signs are tucked away under the night sky, revealing a truly wonderous picture.

It's majestic.

"Wow…" Roizer breathes, sublime and childlike wonder written all across his face. I can't help but gaze around, marvelling, and we both share a goofy grin. It's almost like back in training. I just wish Scout was here. As I quickly look at Bex, her chin is jutting out and her lips are pursed. She doesn't see the beauty in this.

Only the danger.

"We'll need to find some alcohol and I can try stitching you up," I offer, a little breathless.

"And then we set out to search for Scout, in the morning," Bex agrees, looking out worriedly as though she'll be able to spot him in one of the alleyways that criss-cross around the different rides, buildings and shacks.

_If he's still alive_, hangs unsaid in the air between us, bringing me back to reality. I feel heavy and defeated, once again, despite the beautiful view.

The three of us almost jump out of our skins when all of the lights of the Wonderland park dim slightly, to accentuate the Panem seal across the dark blue sky.

The anthem blares, and we all look upwards.

_Please_. Please be alive, Scout.

We heard five cannons before, one of which came later. And I feel my palms sweating as I pray for Scout to not appear in the sky above us.

The first face to appear is Orla's, and the three of us release a collective sigh of relief.

It feels evil, but I can't bring myself to care. Scout's still out there!

I smile up at Bex, but her moment of respite is immediately replaced with worry.

"He's out there, all alone and scared."

I look up at her. "I know Bex, but he's _alive_."

Next, the older boy from Five appears, smiling knowingly. My heart aches for his district partner, who must be seeing this right now.

I … I can't even imagine how she's feeling right now.

I can't even imagine how Orla's parents feel.

She wasn't the nicest, not even by a mile, but someone out there must have cared for her. They might have even broadcast our reactions to her death, just to torment them. I suddenly feel overwhelming shame. Losing your kid might be the worst thing a parent can experience, but having other people sigh in relief... it's disgusting.

And now she's dead, so it all doesn't matter. And Andy, who made jokes about himself just yesterday on stage, is dead too.

Bex must sense my distress because she shuffles closer and puts an arm around me.

Next, is Geoff from District 9. He looks so confident and easy-going in his picture, and Roizer inhales sharply by my side.

"He was… stronger. Than me. And he's d-dead," he states simply, looking incredibly confused. His hands make fists at his sides.

I know the feeling.

It just all doesn't seem _real_.

Geoff is replaced by Aderyn from District 10. Another surprise, and I'm left gawking at her picture. She isn't smiling, her face drawn into a scowl of pure concentration and defiance.

That's four kids, gone. And I know who's the fifth one.

Tyree appears in the sky, his eyes looking somewhere to the left. We saw that happen right in front of us, and it's still not something I can process.

And then it's over, just like that. Replaced by a blackened sky.

The rides resume their music and twirl. Bex looks down, smiling a little bit.

It feels wrong and inappropriate, after what we just witnessed. But there's no point in wallowing in self-pity and sadness, Pulse told me that even though he looks awfully depressed sometimes. Actions always speak louder than words, and there's no words that can make this right. But I can try to do right by the people I care about in my vicinity and that's Bex and Roizer. Scout, who is lost somewhere in the dark.

"He's alive," Bex says at the park defiantly, and she's truly _back_. "We sleep and then we go find our kid."

As though she never even doubted it in the first place.

* * *

**Logan Arteficavitch  
****District 7 Male, 15**

* * *

"Who was t-that?"

I shrug at the question, unable to muster any strength to respond. Ever since this morning, my throat has felt like it has closed in on itself, only allowing tiny bursts of air through so as to keep me from collapsing unconscious.

No one followed us into the woods to our knowledge, and that had seemed like a sensible choice. In retrospect, as the darkness set and it felt like the trees were wrapping their uninviting branches around us in some twisted version of an embrace, I want nothing more than to get _out_ of here.

Poisonous wolf's bane creeps around the roots like a snake, while the trees judge us silently like towering sentries, blotting out any possible remaining light. Risking the Careers at the Cornucopia still sounds better than spending the night here.

The hostility of this whole forest rests heavy, in the shape of a mist that is spread on the ground. The branches twist themselves into terrifying shapes, and it's as though the woods are whispering ominously above us.

Plotting.

While I feel like I'm ready to faint from the fear and exhaustion, Jean's anxiety seems to have dialed up to a thousand. He paces in front of me for what feels like hours, with a pointy stick in front of him. His eyes have acquired a crazed look, and his movements are jerky.

I just want to tell him to stop. It's _pointless_, all of it.

We've cried ourselves dry and there's nothing left but to sleep on the cold bumpy ground, with roots digging themselves painfully into our spines. But I know Jean won't sleep.

We just heard the anthem, and it cemented the fact that our friend was _dead_. Geoff was laughing and breathing and reassuring us yesterday… and now he's gone, and I don't know how to live with that. And the fact that we couldn't even properly see _him_… the sky mostly blocked out by the thick foliage... it just made it worse somehow.

I just don't know… it doesn't feel _real_ or fitting… or fair.

I honestly couldn't believe it, and until the very last second before we saw the disjointed logo of District 9's insignia, Geoff's eyes half-obscured by leaves as he appeared beaming in the sky, I think both Jean and I were hoping that this was all a very sick joke.

That we both violently hallucinated the events that had transpired, and that his neck hadn't been slit open in front of us, as we escaped with nothing but the clothes on our backs.

I shiver, bringing my arms around me for warmth. We don't even have a sleeping bag. We don't have our friend to guide us. We're lost and scared.

The thoughts keep racing through my mind that we should have just gone after him. Maybe three of us against one Career…. it would have been enough to save him.

Maybe if I had gone into the bloodbath, I would have been faster.

We all knew I was a better runner than Geoff, so _why_ didn't I go?

And that horrifying moment, when he hit the girl from Ten. I know it was an accident. I saw his face. I saw how much it ruined him, in his last seconds of life.

There are so many factors that my brain can't seem to reconcile, and it just keeps replaying them in stark detail as though it's a film I can't escape. It's giving me a headache and seeping me of my energy.

But Jean keeps _pacing_.

He hasn't stopped goddamn pacing, as though that's going to resolve anything at all.

We haven't even spoken about Geoff's death. We just cried together until the sun came down. Sometimes, there are just _no_ words to explain how scared you are.

It's like this whole place is poison, slowly suffocating us. Some pale barely visible mushrooms erupt near tree-trunks, like pale fingers reaching up from the ground. I brush my hand against the ground, my fingers catching on larkspur flowers which pepper the misty ground. It's the only splash of intense violet color in this darkness.

We don't even have a fire going and the small flowers almost seem to be glistening…

Something stirs beyond the branches that splay out like the limbs of the dead. Like the tributes who died this morning…

It almost sounds like a rattle.

"F-Fuck Logan, I definitely _heard_ it this time, there's something around us," Jean whimpers, approaching me. I run my hands nervously over the moss. I heard it too, but I don't want to enable him, so I keep my mouth shut for the time being.

My eyes run nervously over the misshapen thick tree trunks around us, and my blood freezes over when I see what I _think_ are a pair of glowing eyes. They disappear almost as soon as I look at them, but I'm rooted to the spot.

After a few seconds, I get up slowly, putting myself into a pathetic mimicry of a fighting stance next to Jean. My entire body is shaking. I don't even have a weapon, and I have no doubt that in the case of an attack, we're going to lose.

"It's… it's probably nothing," I gulp finally, trying to stop my mind from going to the most irrational conclusions. I become very aware of how close we're standing, and how Jean grabs my arm with intensity.

_Beep. _

The electronic noise, so out of the place in this complete wilderness, makes us both tumble forward. Jean screams, shrill and terrified and I bite my tongue, drawing blood. It tastes coppery and salty and I resist the urge to spit.

_Beep beep. _

One small parachute descends slowly, in front of us.

First to action, I rush to it, unwrapping it desperately. My fingers fight clumsily with the fabric and strings in my attempts to get to our sponsor gift. The small blue flowers everywhere glow ominously in the complete darkness as something cylindrical falls into my hand. I fumble with the button, bathing Jean in a ghastly light.

"SHIT!"

I saunter back in surprise, dropping the flashlight I just received, and the shadows around us jump as if possessed. As if on cue, a tortured whine sliced through the heavy air in the forest.

SHIT. If someone or _something_ has not been clued in on the fact that there's two perfectly _edible_ tributes in the forest, then now they definitely are. Whatever is out there will be coming for us, and it's going to be coming fast….

A scurrying noise makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand, and I know Jean hears it too. My blood turns cold and my heart seizes. I just want to close my eyes and wish myself somewhere else.

This time, Jean scrambles like a madman to the flashlight, clicking desperately on the button to turn it off as I'm rooted to the spot I'm standing.

"Fuck… fucking _fuck_," he swears bitterly as the steady bright stream turns into strobing lights, blinking in and out. "Stop goddamn… flashing!"

Something clearly skirts at the edge of my vision, and any previous exhaustion and grief I could have felt is replaced by pure panic.

"Jean..." I whisper cautiously. He keeps cursing under his breath as he finally switches it off. The drumming of my heart is frantic and irregular.

_Thump thump thump thump_.

Stuck in darkness once again.

We are standing back to back now, and as though intentional, mist tendrils coil around us like serpents. I can't even see my own feet, as I squint hard to detect any kind of movement.

Complete silence.

I honestly don't know how long we stand there, paralyzed completely by the dehumanizing fear. It could be minutes, it could be hours.

And that's when we hear it, and it's _definitely_ real this time around.

It sounds distinctly animal, with a hint of agonized human shrieking in its guttural undertones.

A bloodcurdling roar.

* * *

**Scout Trinian  
****District 4 Male, 13**

* * *

It was too good to be true, and I should have known it.

I sniffle into the makeshift pillow I made for myself. It's soft and comforting, but the hard-wooden floor hurts my bones. I want to find my allies so _badly_ that I feel like my heart is about to explode.

The draft causes the window shutters to clank together, causing me to paw blindly at my side. I bring up a small luminescent ball to my face, whipping around wildly to check for any hiding enemies.

Of course, there's none. I made sure to check. But the small light offers little to stop me from worrying. At least it's dim enough so as to not attract attention, due to the number of lightbulbs strung outside.

The wind keeps howling through the open window, and I stare accusingly at nothing in particular.

I might be young, but I'm not stupid… I _saw_ how the Gamemakers put me right next to the most dangerous Careers. I was the cannon fodder of our alliance. Remembering that sends another wave of despair wracking my body.

They failed once, but they won't next time… they'll make sure the odds aren't in my favour until I make some awful mistake or give up, and then it's over. The Capitol won't even blink an eye, and my mom will have to watch as I die all alone, even though I promised her I'd find some friends to protect me.

My eyes fill with tears.

Everyone told me this was fair… Mags said it was going to be _fair_!

But it's so clear to me that I was supposed to be a bloodbath death.

I… I wasn't even allowed to have a chance. And staring at those faces during the anthem, thinking about how it was supposed to be _me_ up there…

I threw up twice just thinking about it in the last half an hour.

On the bright side… and it's _hard_ to think positively right now, but my allies know I'm still alright, since their faces weren't in the sky. I lost them in the confusion, when Bex fell.

I panicked.

I didn't even wait for her to get back up… my feet just propelled me further and further away from the carnage. I didn't stick around to watch and I spent the whole day thinking she died trying to get to me.

My vision blurs once again with tears at the memory, as if I'm looking through a fish-eye lens, but I push down the rising bile in my throat.

That _didn't_ happen.

I escaped and so did my allies and that's what's _important_, right?

A small sneaky evil voice reminds me that Bex might be very injured, at the brink of death, but I push that down too. _No_.

I'm still here. I'm scared, but I'm alive and I didn't get hurt. I found my way into the park by scaling the fence on the right side a few kilometers down.

Didn't even need to go through the turnstiles!

Those are the few facts I know right now and that's pretty good.

_Good_. I say it out loud, making sure to keep my voice quiet. It reassures me, somehow.

I assess my surroundings again, eyeing warily the large chimpanzee stuffed toy. It smiles creepily at me in the darkness, to the point of making me uncomfortable.

All of the plushies here are huge stuffed animals, and I guess I'm holed up in one of the toy shops. It was kind of cute when the lights were on, but I just don't like the way their eyes all seem to be directed at me, now.

I can't even explain it… It didn't bother me too much, but now that I've noticed it, I can't stop thinking about it.

I twist and turn on the floor.

There's little sheep on the walls, and wolves. At first, it's adorable, but just like the toys, the more I stare at the decorated walls in silence, the pointier the wolves' teeth seem to get. Their red tongues sliding out of their maws, towards the helpless sheep…

Another draft of wind causes me to jump up. And that's when I hear the voices.

"-gonna have to stop eventually, you know…"

Curiosity getting the best of me, I creep to the window, first propping my fingers on the windowsill and then slowly inching myself upward to see, without attracting any attention with sudden movement.

"Yeah, I know, but we gotta do this. Or Ambrox will be pissed."

A pair of tall dark-haired girls come to a stop at the intersection just beyond my hideout.

My blood feels like it freezes inside of me.

It's two Careers. My eyes quickly dodge side to side, scanning the area. Are there _more_?

The one with the long hair circles the intersection, her eyes following the set of windows. Her mouth is set in a grim line, all focus and concentration. A sword gleams in her hand.

She's not the one who hurt Bex, but they're both with the guy who did…

I remember the sound Bex made, as she fell down. It was half-surprise, half-pain and it was awful… I can imagine this sword doing that to me, but I wouldn't be able to survive it because I'm just not as strong...

I want to close my eyes, but I can't. I don't move, I don't even _blink_, fearful to cause any movement that would cause them to investigate.

Did they follow me here?

"Hey, Seeva, I was meaning to ask you… we all tried prying and I know it's…" she trails off, and then says something I don't quite catch.

I lean forward imperceptibly.

"… are you alright? You seem off."

The other girl, Seeva, has her back to me. I don't make out what she responds because her quiet words are carried off with the wind.

Her ally approaches her and clasps her by the shoulder.

And her back is to my window, finally!

Now is the time to act. I don't wait to hear what she says as I quietly set off to tiptoe on the wooden floor.

Back in District 4, the drastic changes in humidity always caused our house to creak and groan under our footsteps. When I was much younger, I'd annoy my mom with it, but after a while, I made it a game to sneak around by making the least amount of sound possible.

It turns out memorizing every board wasn't even that hard, and before long I could sneak almost as silently as Trinity does now. And I'm much bigger than a rat…

My mom always used to say that this was a way for the house to _complain_ about its sore joints or something. I didn't really understand, but picturing it in my head always made me laugh and I think that's why she said it.

I really don't need this toy house complaining about me right now…

Because if it starts complaining, the Careers will know.

And I'll be dead.

I close my eyes, exhale slowly and feel out the surface in front of me with my toes, very lightly. I try to imagine myself as small and stealthy as Trinity, with her tiny little paws hitting the ground soundlessly.

There's a certain feeling to a board, when it's about to squeak, you see… you just need to kind of feel it out first.

Breathe in… step.

Breathe out… step. No squeak yet. _Good_.

I keep inching slowly towards the door.

Just a few more steps.

Straining my ears I pause my progress, but the voices of the two girls seem further away. I still can't disregard the possibility of another Career lagging behind but…

I'll have to take my chances.

They're probably scouting the area tonight, and will report back at the Cornucopia in an hour or two, once they hit the outskirts of the park.

Since I basically climbed into the park from the back, I passed a bunch of creepy cages on my way here. All empty. One of them looked like it was torn through, its bars twisted and bending in odd directions. Not much lighting in that part of the park.

It gave me the creeps, but I just ignored it and ran through that part as quickly as I could, the burn in my calves just making me go faster.

The two girls will probably reach these cages soon, and then shortly, the end of the park. So, I don't have that much time to make a run for it and find a good place to hide where they won't bother checking again, on their way back.

So… what do I have to do?

Number one: I gotta go fast. Even if they see me, they might not catch me.

Number two: I need to make sure to head in the opposite direction, towards the large metallic wheel. It stands proud and intimidating at the very center of the park. I saw it as I sped on the grass around the fence.

Number three: once I pass it, I'll probably be around the area my allies probably stopped at. That's the end goal.

With a concrete plan in mind, I reach for the door and open it inch by inch, to avoid any noise that would alert anyone in the vicinity. I bite my lip, pouring all of my efforts into not making a single sound.

The large chimpanzee toy at the other end of the room is somehow still staring directly at me. Again.

I muster the courage to stick my tongue at it, before bolting as fast as I can out of the small toy store. Instinctively, I speed into the small alley to the right, and then realize my mistake.

No, left. I need to go left.

Away from the Careers, towards my allies.

Stupid Scout, stick to the plan!

I take my bearings, and instead of taking the main large alley, I weave through small backroads only fit for one person. I don't stop jogging, trying to orient myself with the wheel. The small alleyways twist and turn, and at every intersection, I need to slow my feet and peer out cautiously, to make sure I don't bump into another tribute who thought it would be a good idea to go on a late-night stroll.

It feels like every time I slow to a stop, my brain is going to explode from the stress, but somehow I make it past the Ferris wheel without seeing anyone.

No voices either, and I smile contently. I do a full turn.

Only small shacks all around me, with silly toys hanging from their ceilings. The lights are more dimmed in this part of the park, and it's kind-of nice. No weird shadows, which is comforting.

I could probably just find a cozy one to hide in, until morn-

_Crack._

Pain explodes on the left side of my head, and for a second, I can only see stars. The next thing I know, I am sprawled on the ground. Through my blurry vision, I can discern a small figure scurrying back onto the porch of a cowboy-themed saloon shack.

"Get away! I'm going to kill you if you move!"

I rub at my injured head, getting up quickly. I yelp in surprise as I squint trying to make out the person in front of me through the piercing pain.

Their arm… her arm is shaking, but the determination in her eyes makes her scary enough that I raise my hands up in fear.

"Not a step closer!"

Her voice is high-pitched and trembling, and she's only half and inch taller than I am. But I still shrink away from the dangerous-looking weapon she is pointing directly at me.

In front of me, wielding a comically large red rifle, is Mona Tillery.

* * *

_Notes: Hey guys! Winding down from the bloodbath, we touch base with some of the kids we didn't get to hear from. Hope you enjoyed this calmer chapter, and definitely let me know what you think! Question of the day: What or who do you think is terrorizing the boys in the woods? Special thanks to Author of Ice and Fire for the constant reviews, honestly, it's people like you that get me excited about posting my chapters, thank you a million times over._

_I actually decided I'm not going to write character eulogies until later (because of reasons) so unless you really want one ASAP in the notes, I think I've got something a little more creative in store __ ! I'll try to have the next chapter up sooner rather than later, but things are picking up a little at work (as in, working from home is no longer the snooze fest it was, so hurray for that). _

_I hope you all are staying healthy and practicing some good social distancing! _

_Peace and love. _


	39. Chapter 35: Day 2 Morning - Semantics

**Day 2: Morning**

* * *

**Salamandra Mitch  
****District 3 Female, 17**

* * *

A part of me genuinely thinks I've gone completely insane.

The smile on my face hasn't left since I saw Valentino appear unscathed from the Cornucopia, his pockets full of the hardware I require.

I mean… I don't know what I expected.

I knew it would _work out_, but still, there was always a possibility that it wouldn't.

Statistically speaking, and all that.

It's like, I was vaguely aware of that possibility, but that shit was buried deep within myself, because I can't afford to doubt the success of this operation. And being validated in the fact that I'm still ahead in the game was really... awesome, for a lack of better word.

I pressed my ally for juicy details of the Bloodbath, but he wasn't very forthcoming yesterday, so I dropped the matter. The adrenaline rush of seeing him walk up to the gates of the park was pretty great on its own, and I'm sure we'll have lots of time to talk about it once he shakes off whatever's bothering him.

Not everyone is like me. And he performed his role admirably.

Yes, that's it.

The task at hand was completed to perfection. I've got my bow and arrow, as well as the small backpack with rope. He's got the spiky-looking baton that's covered in blood, and the small indented green microchips as well as an arsenal of wires that I immediately secured in my backpack.

This means I don't have to bend myself backwards to obtain what I worked so hard to convince the Gamemakers to give me. I can jump straight to the design and execution of the plan, and I'd be lying if my heart didn't flutter at the idea.

Goddamn Valentino!

If it wasn't completely unlike me, I'd hug him. It's rare that people actually make things _easier_ for me, so he's the first of the many recent good decisions I made. And as weird as it sounds, it's nice? Yeah… it's nice to have someone to go through this with, at least for the time being.

My eyes fall of the bloody spiked baton once again, and then up at the boy who just sat up mere seconds ago, rubbing at his face to dispel the last remnants of sleep.

I wonder if any of the kids we saw yesterday up in the sky were his doing. As much as I tried to see from a distance, I couldn't tell who fought whom, and from the empty look in his eyes, I find myself not being able to infer anything at all.

I want to know so badly.

I wish he'd understand that I wouldn't _judge_ him for it.

Hell… that's what is _necessary_ to survive, and it'll happen again before the Games are over. If anything, that'd make me respect him more. But whatever, a question for another time.

I put on the most positive facial expression in my arsenal and stare at him in silence, grinning from ear to ear.

A little lost, he yawns, twisting his head around.

"Good morning sunshine," I intonate sweetly, closing the distance between us and crouching in front of him. Peering directly into his face to assess whether his bad mood extends to today, or whether he'll grace me with a smile and a _thank you_ for staying up all night, slaving away.

"Morning," he replies sleepily, squinting up at me with one eye open. If he's disconcerted by my staring, he doesn't show it.

He mumbles something into his hand and I don't quite catch it.

"What?"

"I said did you sleep at all?"

"…Yes," I lie, a little taken aback by the question. In truth, I haven't even had the chance to close my eyes, too enthralled in my mission to lay-out the concrete course of actions that must be undertaken before my plan is truly in motion.

It took forever, but it's _ready_.

"Not much though," I backpedal, seeing the inquisitive and slightly disgruntled expression on his face.

"Was pretty occupied, and besides… didn't want to tempt fate by both of us being knocked out cold while a group of murderous clown mutts grazed the arena."

"Wait, you saw _clown_ mutts?" Valentino asks in alarm, raising himself up on his elbows, and that's the most energy I've seen from him since the bloodbath. Good.

"Nah, I'm fucking with you," I smirk, stretching myself back to full height.

"That'd be really screwed up." I look up for effect, at the brightening sky. The first rays of sunlight are warm on my skin.

"Whatever horror you unleash on us, it better _not_ be clown mutts, for the sake of our resident princess over here."

Valentino sighs tiredly again, as though he hasn't just woken up from his eight-hour beauty sleep.

I suppress the urge to say something snarky. Instead I make a big deal of fortifying the basic traps I set up last night around our base of operations. Rudimentary little things that won't do more than alert us of intruders, but that'll be enough for now.

It's not like I'm specifically looking for some gratitude at this point, but some acknowledgement would be cool?

He finally notices the papers I scribbled on with an ugly and oversized blue melter crayon. The rest of the pack are lying neatly tucked away in their box.

"Those crayons make for great flammable material," Valentino remarks slowly, and then nods at the papers. "Is that the _plan_?"

I get a little offended at his tone.

First off, yes, I fucking _know_ the crayons make for great flammable material, because we read that _together_ in training. Thanks for the ham-fisted exposition, mister know-it-all… you don't have to be so patronizing so early in the morning.

And second, the intonation with which he says it almost sounds mocking? But that might just be because I sorely need a nap. Despite the wise little voice in my brain telling me to let it slide, I respond in like.

"Yep… worked on that _all night_."

He purses his lips, as though doubting me.

And obviously, I can't help but get defensive.

You'd be surprised how long plans take. Some people have this super idiotic notion that you take some child prodigy from the districts, plop them in an arena, and then they can just _cook up _something beyond their years in a hostile environment that lacks seventy-five percent of the materials they require. Sure… that sounds reasonable!

Reality TV-fueled expectations, amiright?!

The fact is, to avoid mistakes that will cost you your life… you need a painstakingly accurate plan laid out in writing. You can deviate from it, _sure_, I don't expect anything less than a few hiccups along the way, but it has to be followed. And I think I've done a pretty good job of it, especially for our first day.

But now, with him staring at me like that, I feel pretty fucking unappreciated.

I turn around brusquely, getting back to the papers I laid out. There's primitive schematics and lists of materials I still need to gather, but they're all there.

And if he wants to be _pissy_ today, that's his problem. My eyes flit appreciatively over my own writing.

They… _our_ side used DNA-tracking analysis in the war, to obliterate dissidents and terrorists. My parents helped develop the Capitol weaponry, and it was elegant and efficient, just like most things that come out of District 3. It's only _natural_.

The technology itself had been invented about half a century before the fall of the Old World.

It started out as a covert project funded by the government, and in the pre-Panem era, it had been used for years to track people. It was quite simple, really… just a small injection followed by a pinching sensation that only lasted seconds. Mandatory for the entire populace.

Really threw conspiracy theorists for a loop, considering they were right about _something_, for once. That's how the government kept tabs on all of their citizens.

Where they were, what stores they liked to visit.

And more blackmail information on cheating spouses and implanted foreign embassadors than the administration could hope to process.

All for the sake of targeted advertisement and information control on every single person in the country. Lots of missed opportunities and avenues to explore, if you ask me.

The nice thing is that it _worked_. Millions of tiny little dots on a map, like insects scattering across their territory. My dad loved to run simulations with small population samples. I smile fondly at the fuzzy memory.

Of course, it cost a fortune to keep it up and when the old civilization collapsed, adapting this technology for a more lethal outcome was mostly forgotten in favour of primitive and mass destruction assault weapons.

There wasn't a place for elegance and precision in a world of indiscriminate casualties, before Panem came to be.

So, the intellectual property documentation lied untouched, just waiting for someone to take advantage of it.

My parents just happened to find the patents and the records in the government facilities. They put them to good use, when the Capitol had to defend itself against the rebels, during the Dark Days. They combined the tracking system with advanced drone hardware that they developed.

Imagine… an accurate and efficient method of shooting down your enemies with minimal collateral damage?

It's ruthless and inescapable, because once the attacker gets ahold of the most elemental and personalized part of _you_, your genetic code, there is no place on earth you can escape to, once the decision is made to annihilate.

Just a piece of hair, or a drop of blood. That's enough to put a target on your back.

These strikes enabled the Capitol to gain momentous victories over the rebels, but that's not how I plan to use the idea. As I said, I only need a tiny bit of blood and I'll be ready to wreak havoc on the remaining tributes.

Of course, when I walked the Gamemakers through my thought process, I didn't ask for the newest version. Even I'm not _that_ self-assured.

As much as I'd love to one day work with that stuff, I only explained the basic scientific tools I would need to make my own working and scrappy version.

They seemed on board, or at least intrigued enough to let me try.

I just hoped that once I explained the whole convoluted story to Valentino, he'd share my… enthusiasm? Excitement? Curiosity?

But even now, he is sulking quietly behind me.

I whip around.

"Okay. Wanna get us both breakfast and get over whatever shit you're dealing with?" I say, even more annoyed than before.

I thought he'd get inspired by the amount of work I got done overnight.

But I can see that he's still thinking of the little girl from his district.

Aderyn.

I didn't pay much attention to her, except when I heavily considered the possibility of Valentino last-minute betraying me and forming an alliance with her. He didn't and I was proud of him for it, but I'm sure the fact that she was dead kind-of made the choice for him.

He cared about her, and seeing her in the sky yesterday night confirmed my suspicions about the way he's been acting.

But I can't have him be depressed and unmotivated when I'm buzzing with energy and ideas.

His face is unreadable, when I turn around.

"Aw come on… _smile_ a little," I taunt him, met only with an exhausted sigh.

"Look, can you just leave me alone for a bit?"

I know I've struck a nerve.

Usually, anyone else would just _let it be_. Especially when you're in the Hunger Games, and you've got a dude who, for all intents and purposes, can knock all of your teeth out in one clean punch. But I can't help myself…

"Jeez, what's got your panties in a bunch?" I ask, crossing my arms and knowing full-well what's bothering him. It's just like back in District 3, where I'd get my ass handed to me because even at seven or eight years old, I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

In my infinite wisdom, I go for the weak spot.

"It's your District partner, right? I mean, I gave you your space, but unless you're the one who bashed her brains in your horror movie baseball bat over there, I don't think you should be beating yourself up about it."

"My space?" he asks incredulously, and his voice drops dangerously. "Drop it."

"You know… it's all for the best right? No attachments and shit. You're actually ready for the Games," I counter, and I mean it.

Not having someone that drags you down emotionally, like some sort of added weight to this whole mess. That's any _competent_ tribute's dream, and as much as it might suck to admit it for Valentino, losing his district partner in the Bloodbath was the best outcome.

For the first time, I see a trace of undeniable anger in Valentino's eyes, and he stands up. I'm not one to brag, but I'm pretty tall. But he towers over me, and I become hyper-aware of the hands twitching restlessly on each side of his body.

We're face to face, and I can see his jaws clenching together.

I think for a moment that he's about to open up, or slap me hard across the face. Either would be warranted.

Instead, he turns around sharply, stalking back to the solitary bag on the ground, and sitting down cross-legged.

"You're unbelievable."

I gawk. I was prepared for some yelling or even fight, but not this.

And then, I do something very uncommon for myself.

I start feeling _bad._

It's a foreign emotion, and not one I experience very often. But… he _did_ risk his life out there. And it doesn't mean anything to me, but if I want his support, I need to be a bit more accommodating.

Fucking hell.

I shake my head in disbelief at my own bullshit, heading out of the wooden enclosed space out onto the path, sidestepping the traps that are invisible from the outside. If he wants an apology, he's getting it in the form of food. I'm not like... actually going to _debase_ myself saying the words.

As I enter the diminutive food-booth we found yesterday, I start the grill which buzzes lightly to life. Minutes later, the frozen sausages I fish out of the small freezer in the back are sizzling on the flames.

It feels fucking weird, grilling food in the Hunger Games, like I'm some kind of model citizen living the dream. This isn't the way I had thought this would go, but I'm liking it.

I grab the two hot dogs, squirting them clumsily with ketchup, mustard and some condiments I've never actually tasted and stuff them in between bread buns. That's how it looked on the sausage package, so that's what I go for.

After a second of deliberation, just to be safe, I stuff the still-steaming buns with more stuff, until they threaten to overflow. Once I'm done with the cooking fiasco, I make my way back to our base, where my ally sits, pointedly ignoring me.

"Valentino, hey…here," I poke my ally in the shoulder with my foot and only then does he turn around, the mask of numbness still on his handsome face.

I extend my arms. "Hot dogs. As celebration for your success and the fact that we're stuck in probably the best arena ever."

I take a deep breath, and it physically pains me to say it, but I go at it anyways.

"I shouldn't have necessarily… been as much of a dick as I was. It was insensitive, a bit, _maybe_. I'm… _look_, I get we don't share a brain, so let's just move on from this."

Valentino must realize how much it's taking out of me to push those words out, because he finally smiles. It's not the carefree lopsided smile from training, but it's a start.

"Thanks Sal," he replies shaking his head, taking both hot dogs from me.

I mean… one of them was for _me_, and I'm Sal_amandra_ to him, we're not _friends_, but I let it slide for once. It's as good of an apology as he's going to get.

He scrunches up his nose momentarily at the coleslaw that falls out on his lap, and I'm about to rip him a new one about him being an ungrateful little shit, but he doesn't say anything.

"Eat up, and then we get to work," I smirk, drawing up my sleeves in anticipation.

He scarfs one down, and raises a thumbs up at me while biting into the second one as I watch him eat. With my hands around my calves and my chin hitting my knees periodically, because I deserve a little break too.

It takes me a whole minute to feel out the next words that come out of my mouth.

"And if _ever_ you want to talk," I almost retch at the idea, "I'm here. But also, we can talk about cooler stuff."

"Sounds good," he replies, and extends his hand out to tap me on the back. "And thanks for all the work you put into this."

He waves his other hand with a half-finished hot dog that I am tempted to snatch out of his hand, but I don't.

"You'll need to explain all the logistics to me again, I'm afraid, but we're really getting somewhere."

Look at us being all conciliatory and shit. Match made in fucking heaven.

"So, what are we looking for, today?"

I smile deviously, as my chin hits my knee again. "Something… explosive."

* * *

**Cira Dupont  
****District 1 Female, 18**

* * *

"-eighteen protein bars, three liters of water, and that's what we've got for food rations," Morgana concludes, counting down on her fingers.

"Seventeen now," Ambrox remarks when Seeva steals one protein bar nonchalantly, as she's walking around the piles of separated goods.

"Traitor," she teases back, tucking the wrapper away in her pocket and biting into the bar.

The heartbroken expression on Luther's face makes me smile.

"No cookies at all, it seems," he finally reconciliates with that crushing fact, and Seeva pats him on the head affectionately.

"You don't need _more_ cookies right now. God forbid you'd be even more jittery."

Jokes aside, there's really not a lot of resources here, as far as food goes.

In fact, after Morgana and Seeva came back from their night scouting mission within the park, we've gleamed on the fact that this year, the Cornucopia has been placed on the outskirts of the arena.

Instead of being a strategic stronghold, it contains fewer supplies than within the park.

It's not the usual situation, but it has happened before and besides a few loners who decided to run into the forest, most of the tributes have made their way into the gated grounds to the west of the Cornucopia.

It would be more strategic for us to move.

And either way, judging from the screams and ominous roaring coming from the dark trees at night, I'd bet my pinkie on the fact that the faster we put some distance between us and the forest, the better outcome it'll be for our alliance.

Chances are that whatever monstrosity is lurking there will pick off anyone unfortunate enough to be wandering the woods.

And while we are most definitely the most prepared group to confront this beast, I'm not too keen on testing our luck.

"Alright gang, so," Ambrox starts, "Let's go over the schedule of the day."

He slurps up a spoonful of the milk-soaked marshmallow cereal, holding the plastic bowl over his lap. The sponsor gift came early this morning. In fact, everyone got one too, except for Seeva.

I got a warm croissant with a small disposable plastic jar with hazelnut spread. Luther received one solitary chocolate chip cookie, and Morgana was surprised with some steaming bacon strips.

The message was pretty clear.

These were rewards for the kills from yesterday, and Seeva declined our offers to share with her, despite our best efforts. She is nothing if not proud, and I respect that. But I still can feel the restlessness within her, to get moving.

To jump into the action and redeem herself.

"Now that we've separated essentials, we will pack these into our backpacks. The rest we burn."

"We will commandeer the large wheel at the center of the park," Seeva continues, resting her hands on her knees. "We think it's the best place to set-up camp at, since it's at the very center of the park. And it also has lots of food opportunities around it, which we will be able to control."

"There's water around, yes?" I ask, to confirm.

Morgana nods at me. "Exactly. Six water fountains that we could count in the vicinity. Two separate washrooms. We didn't spot too many around, so it'll really act as a funnel once the tributes get thirsty."

We talked about that with Ambrox and Luther yesterday, after our allies came back from the park.

Something's clearly off.

There's just too much food, too many accommodations, so something's bound to limit all of that and I expect it to come sooner rather than later.

"We will separate into two groups," Ambrox continues, and I draw a circle in the sand with a stick, denoting our position outside of it.

"Three of us will go ahead and secure the Ferris Wheel, while the other two will go around and double-check the different exits around the park, if there are any."

My stick finds its way around the pre-established circle, putting an X mark on the furthest right end.

"Where there's the X, whoever goes will be able enter the park and meet the rest at the rendezvous point, which should be directly in view," Ambrox concludes, and I put a dot right at the center, punctuating his point.

"I suggest Seeva, Luther and I go together," I ask, trying to chime in a word. "U-unless anyone doesn't agree?"

As though in unison, everyone nods.

Although I'm terrified of separating myself from Ambrox, we've discussed this in training.

We have to continuously rotate the people we work with, to make sure there's no awkward intra-alliance allegiances that form to threaten the leadership of the pack.

It's not like I _don't_ trust these people. And on this beautiful morning, with all of us eating breakfast, I find myself absolutely desperate to maintain the easygoing camaraderie we've developed.

It feels _nice_.

Nothing like the backstabbing cutthroat energy at the training center back in District 1.

And to preserve this, we need to make sure no internal cliques arise. And heavy lies that burden, especially when I'm the one who has to venture with the pair from District 2.

I'll be outnumbered by people who consistently outperformed me, and while Ambrox is confident they won't try anything on the first real Games day, I can't help but stress about it.

I resist the urge to bite my nails.

There's still blood stuck underneath them, from yesterday. I couldn't bring myself to clean them with a knife, and I suddenly find myself wanting nothing more than the get to our destination in order to wash my hands under running water.

The boy I killed deserved better, but we all do.

During the night, the few hours I spent in a restless state, tossing and turning in my sleeping bag, my thoughts were dedicated to him.

I know Imogen would have been tougher. She would have expelled his face from her memories the moment his corpse was picked up by the hovercraft.

But I can't. I feel weak because of it, but I couldn't stop thinking about his heavy last breaths, the way he sagged after I slit his throat.

He was a murderer when I killed him, but it didn't make it easier. Maybe it did in the moment, but the horrible thoughts still came at night.

I wanted to talk to Ambrox, and ask him if he felt bad about Orla, even though I know he didn't.

I just wanted to be justified and not alone.

But I can't show weakness like that, especially in front of my allies.

"Cira, you alright?"

I am jostled out of my thoughts by Luther who looks down at me quizzically.

I giggle, on reflex. "Yes, sorry, just was stuck in my own head. I'm ready to go."

He offers me a hand, and I take it gladly, my eyes fixating for only a second on the dried flakes of blood.

He helps me shove some medical supplies into my bag, and then loads his own as well as Ambrox's, as my district partner spills one whole bottle of lighting fluid on our supplies.

Of course.

The Gamemakers planned for us to get the hell out of here… it was only a matter of time.

"Light 'em up," Ambrox commands stepping back, and Seeva throws in a match.

The remaining supplies take a little bit of time to catch fire, but by the time we are almost at the amusement park, we see large flames coming up from where we were mere minutes ago.

"See you all for a light lunch at the Ferris Wheel," Ambrox calls after us, waving amicably as he and Morgana set off to our left.

Pulling out the tickets from our pants, Luther and I go through the turnstiles and catch Seeva's bag as she pulls herself up by the horizontal bar with small lights draped over it and clears the turnstiles in one jump.

"Welcome to Wonderland Park, creepy as _fuck_ at night, if I say so myself, but actually surprisingly decent-looking during the day!" Seeva exclaims, waving her hands around dramatically.

She seems in a much better mood today. We weren't able to coax out any information from her, but she had seemed deeply perturbed by something. But after some sleep, she is back to being her confident and happy self. That's much better.

I take in my surroundings silently, marveling at the colorful rides and signs all around us.

It really is pretty.

"So," Luther starts the conversation, "how come you guys didn't want to kill that guy yesterday?"

"Tactful as always," Seeva responds lightheartedly.

"No, but seriously," he pushes, running a little ahead before turning around to walk backwards while facing us. "You guys find him _hot_ or something?"

Seeva laughs loudly, sending a few birds flying off a game booth we pass.

"Nah, I'm … how does one explain... _playing_ for the other team, if you know what I'm saying. But I don't know, it just didn't feel right."

I grin, tight-lipped. She doesn't even know how correct she is.

"Oh, right, right, right," Luther says, tapping his chin with his free hand, the other holding his spear at his side.

"Well like, you know, he could have killed me, but he didn't," Seeva explains herself, getting a little bit more pensive. "I signed up for this and I _know_ what it takes, but I just didn't want to kill a person who trusted in my integrity."

She laughs again. "I don't know, it sounds dumb, but it mattered to me."

Luther shakes his head, in thought.

"You're right… it does sound kind of dumb."

He's promptly swatted in the arm by his district partner.

"I get what you're saying Seeva, it felt really wrong," I side with her.

"Yeah, you know? It's like… thanks dude, you didn't kill me when you had the chance, so let me just backstab you real' quick."

"But it's either him or you."

"I know but…" Seeva pauses, trying to justify herself. "Okay, let's say for example, we're in the final two, no offense Cira."

I shake my head smiling. "None taken, this is all hypothetical anyways."

"Exactly! So anyways, we're in the final two. We'd fight. And I know you'd give it your all to kill me, so it would be fine, morally-speaking," Seeva explains as Luther nods.

"And then I'd win," Luther interjects, but I shush him. Not the point.

"It's about the power dynamic, I think. Like if we found one of the younger kids, let's say the boy from District 4. We'd find him, and then I'd have to kill him."

Seeva looks at me now, as though trying to prove something.

"I'd do it. I wouldn't love it, but I'd do it. But let's change the scenario and I find the boy from District 4 but in this case, I befriend him and eat his food. And then he goes to sleep, so I take the opportunity to slit his throat."

She shakes her head.

"It's not right."

_Maybe that's why you'll die_, a dark thought pops up into my head, but I suppress it with all of my might. Maybe the fact that she has boundaries is what makes her more righteous than the rest of us. More deserving of victory.

"Okay, I think I get it," Luther says, his eyes wider than usual. He definitely didn't get it.

"So, like, killing the little boy makes me a bad person. Or at least in _your_ eyes."

Now, it's my turn to interrupt.

"Nah, you're not a bad person. I don't think Seeva thinks that either. Everyone is just responsible for their actions, and if you can live with them, that's what actually matters."

Saying the words makes me feel a little bit better about myself too.

"It's not about being a good or a bad person. I don't think anyone here can be defined as such… it's more like, what you're prepared to do."

"So, you see," Seeva finishes the lesson, "we're kind of a by-product of our environment, and District 10 wasn't ready to kill me and so I didn't want to double-cross the guy. And Cira agrees with me on this, it just wasn't the right time."

"The vibe was off," Luther finally agrees, sagely.

I chuckle lightly. "Exactly, Luther."

* * *

**Jessamine Law  
****District 11 Female, 16**

* * *

It's been an unending wave of ups and downs, ever since I ran away from the Bloodbath.

From a neurological sense, I mean.

I went through these cyclical bursts of extreme torturous energy, where I just ran mindlessly in order to escape wherever I was. The bouts of nausea, sobs and blinding headaches would grip me, driving me to the ground. Not an ounce of logic about it.

And then I'd spend hours, paralyzed by fear, unable to even twitch.

I'm in pain now, not from any injury, but rather as a consequence of the crippling lock of my muscles for hours on end, as my limbs struggled against the invisible mental chains rooting me to the spot. I've never experienced the true meaning of fear, until now. Even being reaped and shipped off to the Capitol, the threat of never seeing my family again, the anxiety of the Gamemaker sessions and the interviews… nothing compared to this.

Fear. That's all I am made of.

A hunted animal.

But as the light shines into my eyes, bouncing off the aluminum trash can nearby, I realize that I managed to fall asleep in the middle of that waking nightmare. I gasp for air, but it doesn't feel like it's fluttering deep within my chest, shredding my lungs.

I squint upwards, brushing the tangled hair out of my face. The sky is gloriously blue, not a cloud in sight, and the hints of festival music reaches my ears. I breathe in again, more deeply this time.

I feel better.

No, not better.

My mind is still clouded with grief and dread, but things are _clearer_.

I stretch out my legs, and I feel that I am no longer a mindless insect skittering away from the light, dashing across the table.

I'm hurting all over now.

Yesterday, a tribute could have found me and shattered my leg in three different places, and I would have still kept on running, not feeling any pain or any desire for retaliation. Like one of those chickens Addie told me about, where they'd chop its head off, but it would keep running around in circles in its pen, because of the impulses firing spasmodically through its body.

Today, the ache in my muscles grounds me.

I know where I am.

And I make peace with what transpired yesterday. I repeat the mantra my brother told me, in my head.

_Be nice to people. Fly under the radar. Make a decent ally or two. Don't go in the Bloodbath. Lay low. Kill, if you have to._

The Bloodbath is over. So, no more worrying about that.

Everything else… I've failed. I've failed to follow my brother's most basic instructions because even when my life is on the line, I can't do anything right.

In hindsight, I realize where I had made my mistake. Like most things in my life, I threw myself head over heels into _one_ specific task at hand. I hyperfocused on my ally from District 10, pouring all my efforts into befriending her and my energy into making our alliance into something real and tangible.

Something that we both couldn't go without.

And now that she's gone… I have no alternatives. I have no weapons, no direction to follow.

I dig my knuckles into my eyes, pressing until the pulsating pain in my brain subsides a little bit, in favor of swimming colorful dots behind closed eyelids.

What would Addie do?

She'd assess the situation and make a short-term plan. No overanalyzing and focusing on minute details, just broad strokes of what needs to be done.

_Okay, I can do that_.

I look down at my hands, and start absentmindedly picking out the tiny rocks that are lodged in small indented wounds. From the Bloodbath. The palms of my hands are hurting, like the rest of me, but they're also shaking slightly from the lack of food.

So, mission number one is clear: I need something to eat, because my mad dash around the entire arena yesterday depleted me of any energy, and I can't run on pure adrenaline forever.

Something's going to give, unless I get some sustenance.

The alleyway I'm in is incredibly tight, almost suffocating. I couldn't even stretch my legs completely, if I wanted to touch the wall opposite to me. There's nothing around me but rows of trashcans, but when I open them one by one, they're completely empty. I sit back down, cross-legged.

Closing my eyes, I try to recall if I saw anything on my way here. To have any sort of direction to follow.

I remember… _yes_, there were definitely pictures with _food_ around, and from the faint smell of grilled meat that hits my nostrils, I realize two things. The first is that food will likely not be a problem, as long as I stay on the main path. The second is that if I'm able to smell someone else's food, it means that I better get the _hell_ out of dodge before that particular person finds me and decides to have a little side-dish of murder to complete their little lunch. Or maybe they're one of the nice ones…

I banish that idea almost immediately. _No_. I already made the mistake of underestimating Geoff. I thought he was one of the nice ones, and he killed my ally.

I can't trust anyone here.

Okay, time to go.

I crouch low on the ground to avoid being directly at eye-height and peer around the corner. No one's there, so I slowly inch into the alleyway, surrounded by boutiques and little quaint shops. Small lights hang from every rooftop, and it would be cute if I didn't start hearing two distinct voices in the distance.

I can't make out what they're saying, but it's definitely a boy and a girl. But when I try to go through the list of alliances, I come up blank.

Boy and girl… boy and girl…

It could be Three and Val. I think… were they together? Shit…shit! Curse my stupid memory, why am I coming up completely blank?

I stay put for another two minutes, but the voices seem to be getting further away.

I judge them to be at least another two alleyways across, maybe even three. I can do this. I can sneak away unseen, but I need to do it fast.

Even though my brain feels like it's pulsing within my skull, depleted of any energy stores to form any coherent thought, I breathe in deeply and peek into the next street, perpendicular to mine.

_SHIT_.

Two Careers are maybe thirty-five meters ahead of me, three intersections to the left but in plain view from where I stand. One of them looks directly into my eyes. His face is relaxed, almost impassive. And his lips curve upward, gracing me with an amused look.

I have no weapons, nothing to protect myself with.

No one to help me, or care about me when I die in this wretched arena.

And that's when I freeze.

I'm staring into this tall boy's face as though I'm a deer stuck in headlights. The moment stretches on, and I just… I-I don't know what to do!

Does it even matter? Does it _matter_ what happens?

Ever since I boarded the stupid train, all I've relied upon was the fact that someone was going to help me out through the process. That's all I've ever known.

If Addie… If Addie was still here, I'd follow her instincts and trust her to make the right call, especially in a moment with no viable exit. That's why I was so desperate to ally with someone like her in the first place…that's why I'm _panicking_ now.

She was the one to go into the Bloodbath for our supplies. While I would have always supported her in whatever she would choose, she was the one who was supposed to make the tough executive decisions while I planned around them and considered all of the small details she overlooked.

She had what it takes to play this game, and I was just tagging along. She had the agency I always lacked, because even at home, I'd just be following through with _someone else's plan for me_… oh god...

And for one microsecond, I consider the possibility of dying here and now. Succumbing to the pressure for one final time.

No meltdown, no tears. No allies, no more decisions to make.

Just earth-shattering exhaustion and an inability to decide for myself.

I imagine myself as one of those people you hear about on the news, every few weeks. The ones from District 6 or even District 1, who lose their jobs in yet another employment crisis. Who just step into traffic, or onto the tracks of an incoming train. Who are found poisoned, taking their own life as their last statement of agency.

Inconsequential, just like me, because all they do is _execute_ _tasks_ until they have no one to listen to, anymore. The lack of guidance is what eats them from the inside out.

All of the people, unable to keep up with what life throws at them so they end up trampled, crippled and spat out lifeless onto the pavement.

The boy reaches behind his back, drawing a sword that gleams in the sunlight. As it slides from its scabbard, it sings a song of metal and danger, and it brings me back to what I was trying so desperately to outrun yesterday.

The screams…

They threaten to overwhelm me in that moment. But, that's when something so violent twists within my stomach that I almost double over.

I'm _not_ going to ever hear myself scream like that.

I'm not.

I snap out of it. As though my mind is a band that has been stretched too taut, I feel the pressure alleviate all at once.

I have no one, but I can still make a choice.

Without even making a conscious decision, my feet slip outwards as I round the corner, in my efforts to get away from the Careers. As humid as it feels, the air hurts my throat and lungs as I breathe harder and harder, in order to keep up the constant input of oxygen required for my body.

I can't hear them behind me. But I know they're on my tail.

With each footfall, a sharp pain shoots up my ankles and into the upper joints of my legs. The vibrations resonate throughout my entire body, radiating upwards, but I continue running. I zigzag through the alleyways, with one goal in mind: escaping my pursuers.

For Addie, who didn't make it out.

For my brothers, who want to see me fight this with every fiber of my being.

After fifteen minutes, I dare to turn around, and see the girl from District 7 catching up to me. The boy … I can't see the boy, but it's safe to say that they're both probably trying to trap me between the two of them, so I need to find a way to… to turn the tides.

If I keep running, I'll be herded to where they want me to be, and I can't escape that.

The only way I can shake things up is…

What? What can I do?

My eyes scan the walls of the buildings. I need to go upward.

In a final act of desperation, I throw myself up the wall of a yellow brick building.

Something breaks, and the index finger of my left is searing with blinding pain, but I bound across the wall like some sort of manic lizard. The girl is right behind me. I hear her test the wall underneath me, proceeding with a lot more caution.

I scramble over the lip of the roof, bounding to my feet once again. I need to hit her with something, before she's up.

Anything! Shit!

I grab a brick, lying discarded, just as her face clears the side of the roof.

Silent, focusing all of my strength on the hit, I smash her directly in the head.

It's not enough. My arm is shaking, bleeding as she holds on. Her eyes losing focus but her fingers gripping onto the ledge harder than ever, struggling to hoist herself after me.

I smash at her right hand and then her left.

I don't wait long enough to watch her tumble down, but I hear her cursing loudly as I dash across the roof, falling stomach first onto the neighboring building.

The air is knocked out from my lungs, but I whip my head around, suppressing the coughs that threaten to overwhelm me. With a bird's eye view on the alleyways in my vicinity, I can see the blond head of the boy from District 1 running towards us.

Where do I go…

I have fifteen seconds, maybe twenty to make my escape before he finds her there, and climbs up to finish me off. I clear another roof, landing on another building. I pray that my hit dazed her enough for her not to have seen the direction in which I went.

My entire left hand is throbbing, hot to the touch. The index finger is at a weird angle, but I disregard that injury completely, running further and further away from the Careers. When I can no longer hear the girl's voice for what feels like a good while, I finally allow myself to scale down a ladder, ending up near a grass-filled clearing, with houses all around it.

With the adrenaline subsiding, the ache returns more insistent than ever and I can't help but limp forward as my ankles scream in protest. Too much jumping around, too little food.

From the looks of it, I made it far enough from the rides, because the houses around me are more practical-looking, less colorful.

Actually…as I look around, I realize that this entire area has a more utilitarian feel to it. I see storage containers as well as huge crates filled with sand. A set of orange cones lies discarded to the side. I didn't notice it before, but the houses are a lot closer together.

If I was to guess… I think I'm at the edge of Wonderland Park.

A grey metallic door in the middle of the clearing catches my attention. The off-center yellow metal sign reads "Employees Only!".

Maybe it's because it stands out eerily among the other surrounding structures, or maybe there's something unsettlingly intriguing about it, but I feel myself stepping closer to investigate.

There's small mounds and indents in the ground, as I make my way to it. Weeds protrude from the ground, and as I approach the door, large sickly-yellow caps pepper the entrance to the door.

I crouch down, my knees cracking and aching. As I brush my fingers underneath the largest mushroom in view, they come away yellow. My lips curl downward in disgust as I hastily brush the mucus-like substance on my pants.

I might be hungry, but… definitely not that hungry.

My eyes sweep the ground once more, surveying for any movement.

Everything here seems… unkept, so unlike the rest of the park. It's also really quiet all around me, and I become distinctly aware of the fact that I can no longer hear the music. Only the gentle breeze rocks the overgrown tufts of grass back and forth.

It'll be very easy for anyone passing through to spot me. Once the two Careers report back to the rest of their alliance, I would bet my life on the fact that they will hunt me down. And that may be a matter of minutes or hours or days, but if there's one thing I'm certain of is that if I stay above ground, I have a much higher chance of being located.

With one last look behind me, I cradle my left hand close to my chest, and open the door with my right, bracing myself. Contrarily to my expectations upon seeing the rusted hinges, it doesn't screech bloody murder, sliding without a sound.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

A set of rickety-looking stairs lead downwards, and my gut reaction is to flee in the opposite direction. Drag myself to one of those huge containers outside, and hide there.

This feels like a set-up, and _of course it is_. It's the goddamn Hunger Games.

For what feels like the millionth time, I wish I had someone to counsel me, to be with me as I cross the door's threshold.

_Lay low._

That's my mission number one now, and I can't help but frown. I didn't know I'd be taking my brother's advice so literally. As I descend the stairs, the air stills and the silence is deafening.

The rhythm of my heart keeps up a steady and maddening pace as I close the door behind me and make my way down towards the faint but steady source of yellowish light.

A hysterical part of me wants to belt out "Hello, is anyone there?", just to pander to the helpless girl stuck in a horror movie trope, but this is _not_ how I die. My parents didn't end up pouring in countless efforts into my education only for me to go full Capitolite bimbo and end up dragged off into the darkness for my troubles. So I suppress the urge to laugh or cry, biting my lip and closing my right fist.

I just escaped two freaking Careers. I bashed a girl across the head and sent her tumbling down a small building in order to survive, and it would be awfully _disrespectful_ to kick the bucket now.

The light flickers, just as I stop beyond the last stair. A few hesitant steps later, I enter a small room with rock walls. It smells like humidity and rusted metal, and I scrunch up my nose in reflex.

No monstrosity jumps out to end my life, which is good.

As I survey my new surroundings, I notice a large map on the wall ahead of me.

In green thin lines, I see names of rides as well as the alleyways, the shops and the various food courts available. The Ferris Wheel stands proud and tall at the very center. These are the blueprints to the park!

But in red, I see a much more intricate pattern, crisscrossing through the park.

No. Not _through_.

A red arrow with the words "You are here!" points helpfully to the utmost western corner. Little veins go in different directions, much more hectic and seemingly disorganized. Some end right at the entrances of the rides.

Holy shit. The realization of what I just found hits me like a ton of bricks.

Not through … underneath!

As my eyes dance hungrily over my newfound treasure, entire sections are delineated with double-boldened red lines. I survey the legend, realizing those are railway tracks. Railway tracks that can bring me across the park to the eastern part, near the Cornucopia.

I hastily rip the map off the wall, releasing a cloud of moldy dust. And I do the one thing I didn't think I'd _ever_ do again when I saw Addie fall during the Bloodbath.

I start giggling.

Unless anyone else has discovered this, I've got the advantage. I might not have any weapons, but this means I can travel underneath the arena while the others pick each other off.

My giggles die down when I peer into the corridor beyond this makeshift control room, straining my eyes to see anything that lies beyond. More stairs, probably, that will bring me to the underground railway system. Let's do this. It's now or never.

I'm alone and I'm scared, but this gives me a direction to follow, for better or for worse.

I take a shaky breath, and step into the darkness.

* * *

_Notes: Hey folks! Hope you liked this chapter and I would love to hear your input!_

_It took a while to publish because of the sheer amount of work that befell me, and I'm sorry to say that I don't know if I'll be able to update faster than every two weeks, considering I'm starting two summer classes on top of my regular thesis work tomorrow! Yay me! _

_That being said, everything is already mapped out, so it's only a matter of writing it, which I will do any time I have a free hour to spare! _

_Please let me know what you think of what's up with the tributes! What do you think about the discovery of an underground employee travelling system? _

_Next chapter, we're getting Mona (who, to be fair, we were supposed to get to this chapter, but seeing as it's already breaking the 8K word count, I wanted to leave her for later) Mara, as well as Luther. Also full disclosure, the clown mutts are an inside joke with myself, there will be lots of horrifying things but I PROMISE you that clowns will not be terrorizing our tributes. No clowns. _

_Peace and love. _


	40. Chapter 36: Day 2 Evening - Wild Ride

**Day 2: Evening**

* * *

**Luther Szeto  
****District 2 Male, 18**

* * *

I've brought food, supplies and managed to get us a kick ass grill, but I still feel like we've done nothing with our day.

It's not a _huge_ deal, but it's just that everything kind of stopped when Morgana came limping back, supported by Ambrox. It was… _not_ what anyone was expecting, to be honest.

I mean, if you're asking me, I didn't think _any_ of us Careers would be getting our asses handed to us so early on in the games. Especially Morgana… I don't know, she integrated so _well_ within our group that I hadn't even considered she was not the typical Career.

But the way she limped back… she looked pitiful. I don't really like the implications of that.

I guess there _is_ a difference, after all, no matter how much you try to hide it.

I don't say that out loud, though.

It could be seen as a bit insensitive, and I don't have anything against Morgana, personally. Besides, Seeva likes her and I fought with her in training enough to see that she's _really_ good.

And I trust that.

Just weird that she got out-smarted by a small underfed girl from District 11, of all places…

But no.

No point in cluttering my brain with doubt.

I'm not great at getting a read on people, but I _know_ what's bothering her even more than her injuries. It's the self-consciousness that wasn't really there at the surface, before. Maybe that's because of the way everyone is staring.

Seeva is gently rewrapping Morgana's injured knuckles in fresh bandages, throwing out the old ones into the trashcan we dragged to our impromptu camping site, right under the Ferris Wheel.

I look back at it, standing majestic and tall in the middle of everything. Like some watchful eye, spinning around and around like clockwork.

It really is beautiful.

Morgana curses, and I saunter to her side. Cira is already hovering uselessly at her other shoulder.

I peak over the injured girl's head, almost resting my chin on it, and then deciding against it at the last second. We're not _that_ close, and she is sporting a pretty nasty bruise in the shape of a rectangle on her forehead, to boot.

It's almost comical, if I didn't know better.

From my side, I can see that it's more of a scrape than a dent, which is a good sign. The blood has been mostly washed away, and a nasty bluish lump is visible.

A sign of swelling, but hopefully nothing too serious.

The two of us were set up as the patrollers for tomorrow, and I don't want to end up dragging my concussed ally around. It'll definitely dampen the fun.

"So just to get this straight, you climbed up a house and then the girl clonked you in the head with a brick?"

Silence.

I breathe out near Morgana's ear, facing Seeva directly, whose disapproving face is telling me to fuck right off.

But I'm not gonna do that, because I'm bored and it's partly Morgana's fault, indirectly.

"Yes," Morgana manages through her teeth, wincing as another wave of pain probably shoots up into the back of her skull.

"_Boring_… just like the rest of this day," I intonate, fully aware of how childish I sound. I get a smoldering glare, right back.

Even injured, I'm sure Morgana could headbutt me just to spite me, and I'm not super into breaking my face this early on in the Games.

I circle around her, crossing my arms across my chest and smirking.

She continues eyeing me angrily, her eyebrows furrowed on her forehead.

In response, I cross my eyes at her, pursing my lips together into a tight smile.

"You're so weird, you know that?" she says, and I cock my head to the side, for humorous effect. Maybe it'll weird her out. Maybe it'll make her laugh.

"Don't have anything better to do," I fire back.

If Morgana knows what's good for her, she won't try imitating me. I remember back at the Center, when I was younger and I'd get my ass handed to me by a particularly nasty trainee, I'd often fall on my head. It was like a curse or something, because I doubt anyone out there has sported more undiagnosed concussions than I did.

Athena probably did, but she's a special case for different reasons. Not that she'd be caught dead goofing around, unless Sujax ordered her to.

Either way, crossing your eyes mid-concussion was a wild ride in and of itself.

Instant spinning time, with complementary nausea!

My aunt Roxanne was never happy with me when I did that, when I was stuck at home doing absolutely _nothing_ during the few injury-mandated bedrest days they forced on me. She used to tell me the only reason she didn't smack me across the head even harder was that I sorely needed all the braincells I could keep.

She'd tell me all those stories of athletes from before the war, who would become old and get brain diseases, forgetting who their relatives were and crazy stuff like that. How there was a whole science to these kinds of injuries, and that the effects would catch up to you, sooner or later.

I'd just laugh it off, because her preoccupied medic spiel got old, sometimes.

Everything turned out fine, in the end.

"Hey Morgana, have you ever tried crossing your eyes when you got hit in the head?" I ask her innocently, but she doesn't fall for it.

"Hah_ hah_, dickhead," she mutters under her breath, and I hear Cira release an amused snort before walking away to start the grill. "It's like you want me to die."

I shield my eyes from the sun, walking around the sitting girl. All this walking around to keep the buzzing energy that's got ahold of my body at bay, because I just want to do _anything_ worthwhile!

"You know, at least you got hit in the front of the head," I tap my forehead for emphasis."Apparently, that's the thickest part of the skull."

I look at Seeva for confirmation. She just chuckles. "Exactly the kind of cool facts a person who just sustained a head-hit wants to hear."

"I mean, I don't know any maimed hands facts…" I say, a little lost. Maybe I do actually…

"Yeah no, it's _peachy_, I'll just kick someone to death, it's fine," Morgana grumbles, thrusting her newly wrapped hands towards me. "That's exactly what the crowds want."

I know I've pushed perhaps a little bit too far.

"It's chill. If someone can do it, it's you," I attempt, trying to be at least somewhat supportive. But Morgana's not in the mood.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" I finally ask crouching down, and Seeva smiles at me.

"It's nice of you to _finally_ offer, but I think we're okay. We've assessed the injuries, and apart from a rough morning tomorrow with all of the bruising from the fall, we should be fine."

I frown.

Everyone's got a job to do… Ambrox is setting up a preliminary alarm system, Cira's gone to cook supper and Seeva is tending to an injured Morgana.

Well, I don't really know how else I can be useful.

"Every time I got hit in the head, light was a bitch and a half," I start again cautiously, trying to keep up a conversation, but Seeva cuts me off.

"Luther, I'm glad you're trying to … connect? But she's really tired. She fell off a building."

I smirk. "So?"

"So… you can go be bored somewhere else and not make it _our_ problem?"

I pout, about to interject, but Seeva gets up and drags me by the arm a bit further away.

"Look, I know you're trying to be nice, but she actually got hurt," my district partner says quietly. "We actually really need someone to go check out beyond Ambrox's perimeter."

I had almost forgotten about that.

"It would be really helpful if you did that," Seeva affirms, looking around.

She sounds like my best friend Alice did, every time she wanted me to get off her case, but I don't take it personally.

After all, that's the excuse I was looking for, to go exploring a bit. To shirk the responsibility of projecting an air of fake sympathy for someone else. Anything to move a little, instead of sitting, hovering around a person who clearly just wants some peace and quiet.

The sun is already starting to set, painting the entire path in a beautiful golden pinkish light. The metallic structures all around us look more imposing than ever, and I get the irresistible urge to just take off running.

Seeva hands me a knife, and I grin at her one last time before I set off.

"Don't go too far, I don't want you to miss supper," she calls after me, and I pretend to not hear her. I'll definitely be late for supper.

In my head, I draw out the paths we've gone through earlier today, and remember all of the cooler-looking rides being situated closer to the park entrance. So naturally, that's where I'm headed.

I pass by Cira who is unpacking some patties and putting them on the grill. A few chopped peeled and chopped up potatoes lie on the side.

"Wanna go explore a bit?" I ask her, and she laughs.

"Dude, you really are _that_ bored on the first real day?"

"Yes...?"

"Well you're on food duty tomorrow, so you better enjoy your freedom while it lasts," she whispers, almost to herself, a genuine smile appearing on her lips.

I nod at her.

"You sure you don't want to come along?" I pause for a second. "I mean, _whatever_, everyone can wait for food."

She shakes her head, laughing lightly.

"Not pretending to be a detective or anything, but I'm pretty sure you didn't help at all with Morgana's headache, so some food will do her good. You go… I'll tell the others you're patrolling the perimeter."

I take off, only Seeva's small knife down in the strap near my boot. It's almost liberating, after a whole day of carrying the spear around.

I zigzag through the alleyways, passing cotton candy stores, adorned with colorful displays, and small boutiques, with toys in the windows. It almost reminds of the days before the war, with my brother Daniel… but it never looked this nice. The racing was always fun though.

Nothing in District 2 beats the colors out here. As I'm running, dust lightly accumulating behind me as my feet push against the ground, I just focus on all of the novelty around me.

I just wish all of this wasn't so _serious_. Maybe if it hadn't been the Games, and we didn't have to murder each other, Alice would have had the chance to experience a place like this. My friend would have claimed that this was all beneath her, all the rollercoasters too childish for a scholarly and educated grown-up like her, but I know that deep down inside she'd love it.

Maybe… once I win, I can bring her down here, once the murdering is done and cleaned up. I know they tried something similar with Capitol tourists in Athena's arena, but it didn't go down well with the crowds, considering how hot it was.

But here, everything is just perfect!

Even though I'm completely alone, not a soul around, I smile like a madman, air coming out in controlled spurts out of my parted lips.

It takes me about ten minutes of sprinting like a madman before I stop dramatically, right in front of a huge ride with a gaping monstrous mouth for an entrance. Dimly lit rickety stairs lead deep into the monster's maw, with sharp jagged teeth painted white forming the archway.

"The Beast devours all that venture past, beware," I read, bringing my fingers absentmindedly to the side of the monster's giant gaping mouth.

I grimace right back at the wooden entrance as I pass it, and the lights turn on fully.

The whole ride seems to be working on a loop, as I walk up the wooden stairs only to find myself in a designated waiting area.

"Cool," I say to no one on particular… and jump about three feet into the air when a mechanized voice erupts behind me.

"Ye poor soul! I see you have been devoured!"

I whip my head around, quickly finding the source. A rusty-looking speakerphone hangs on the far-right corner of the waiting area. Right. The whole park's working, everything's electric.

That's how they keep the rides going.

"This is no place for cowards, I must warn ye!" it intonates, and I grin.

"No cowards here," I decide to play along, relaxing a little.

"Your only way out…" the static crackles a little bit for effect as I wait for the end of his sentence, "is through! Come aboard, and battle your way through fear and thrills, to escape…" thunder effects rumble from the speakers, "the BEAST!"

A screeching sound on the ride rails alerts me that the cart has come back into its original place. As we walked past the rides today, we saw the largest ones going around and around, completely empty.

All of this potential fun… completely wasted. It kind of made me upset, even for a few seconds.

"Now now, _passengers_! Only thirty seconds to get into position."

I'm not totally stupid. This could be a trap by the Gamemakers. I mean… they could just kill me. But what would the point be?

What would Seeva do?

She'd roll her eyes, reluctantly check the entire structure for any suspicious flaws in design and still not go and have fun.

But damn it… Seeva might be leagues smarter than I am, but I don't give a shit. That's what I'm saying about all of these guys being too serious!

I make up my mind, just as the countdown on the red screen at the front of the car reads 15 in bright red numbers.

I'm going to ride this Beast rollercoaster, and there's no one to stop me.

As I sit down, my knees awkwardly hit the front of the cart, and a bar descends onto my lap, automatically.

When I try to lift it up, it doesn't budge.

A small ball of annoyance settles in my throat. Fuck.

Well… I mean, if I miscalculated and this is a trap, killing me now would be pretty easy.

But most importantly, very _lame_.

No point in worrying about that. I smile at no one in particular, hoping the cameras and _especially_ Athena catch the shit-eating grin on my face, just asking them to smite me down.

Trap or not, I resolve to enjoy the shit out of every moment of this ride. That's what I've been wanting to do all morning, and now it's actually happening!

Any further thoughts flee at a moment's notice, and the cart lurches into motion.

_Tik tik tik tik_.

I can feel each rail underneath the small cart I'm seated in, with the hits reverberating in the chariots behind me. It goes very slowly, dragging me upwards.

I careen my neck forward, just to be able to see what's ahead. It seems like the cart will be going up for at least another fifty meters into the air, or maybe more.

When I clear the area sheltered by the ride's entrance, I feel like the exhilaration stirring deep within me.

The wind hits my face, and I finally peer around me.

I can see the whole park, in its entirety. If I squint, I can even see movement on the far east side, as well as a lone figure about a kilometer away from where my allies are stationed.

I file that thought away for later.

Instead, I focus on the fleeting colors of the sky, the cotton candy clouds, and the beauty sprawled in front of me. The music sounds distorted, but still so upbeat and carefree, even from this vantage point.

Around me, there are dozens of other rides, as twisty as the one I'm on. But none, apart from the gigantic Ferris Wheel, is as tall as this one.

_Tik tik. Tik._

I see now that the ride I'm on has three dips ahead of the one I'm ascending, followed by a complete loop. My stomach lurches at the thought, but the childlike excitement eclipses everything.

_Tik. Tik._

For one terrifying second, as I ascend the peak and get a proper look downward, I realize that all the Gamemakers need to do is release the intricate mechanism to see me plummeting to my death.

Everything is still for one second, the wind whipping through my hair and sticking my shirt to my chest as I cling to the metal bar in front of me. I'm only vaguely aware that I'm smiling like a maniac.

_Click_.

But any coherent thought seems to escape right through the top of my head as the carts suddenly lurches forward, propelling me down the ride. It's like my soul literally leaves, because it can't catch up to the speeding cart. I feel light as a feather.

I want to scream, but the breath is stolen from my lungs. This is what feeling _alive_ is like!

For the first or maybe second time in my life, I truly feel elated and best of all, _scared_.

Truly and utterly free.

The depth and acuity of the feelings in my chest almost hurts, as I go down down down, and then up, down and sideways as the cars rattle on the ride. It's all so real. It's not _empty_ anymore.

_Holy shit_.

Liquid accumulates at the corners of my eyes, from the sheer speed of whipping through the air, but I keep them open because I have to keep seeing how I fly.

I wish Alice could experience this.

As I soar through the air, my arms gripping the bar stopping me from flying off into the air, I just can't stop myself from feeling a warm emotion settle at the bottom of my summersaulting stomach.

* * *

**Mona Tillery  
****District 9 Female, 13**

* * *

We're sitting in the dark, now that the sun is slowly setting. The lightbulb above my head flickers hopelessly, and goes out, plunging us into darkness.

Not the most welcoming place, when it's dark. My left arm wraps around my midsection involuntarily, even as my right grips the red rifle tightly.

I watch as Scout scratches his head a little bit, trying to avoid the sensitive area where I knocked him.

I feel a little _bad_ about that, but…

He didn't complain though, and I didn't end up injuring him seriously, so I consider that a win on all fronts. A little lump on the head, and a few scratches… I've had worse after I tumbled headfirst down the hill behind our house.

I can't help but still feel awfully jumpy, and I'm sure ma' and the rest of my folks wouldn't fault me for it. After what I witnessed yesterday, I don't think anyone can leave unchanged, except for the trained ones.

Damn them to hell and back, may they catch the worst of diseases in this stupid arena!

I didn't stay long enough to see what went down, but the five faces I saw yesterday in the sky told me enough.

A few of the weaker ones.

A few that I hadn't really expected, if I'm being totally honest.

I wasn't particularly sad about any of them… just very _shaken_ about everything happening so fast. The fact is that I didn't know them and didn't really have time to be truly broken up about it, that's all.

The first thing I did after I ran away was get my bearings. Scrambled up on the roof of a shack, and outlined the alleyways around me, dotted the different visible rides. To make sure I didn't walk into something completely unexpected.

I tried memorizing the different outlined sections, which is a good thing because very shortly after, all the electricity went out in that sector.

I decided to move just a couple of alleyways down, in the hopes of finding something to snack on, which I was under the impression was plentiful.

Didn't have much luck, in that department, lucky me!

But on the bright side, not long after, I found the saloon and my trusty rifle, so it worked out in my favor. Still, the lack of food started to worry me a bit.

I look at Scout again and he's bent over, keeping his hands pressed on his stomach discretely. Hungry, too.

After I hit Scout in the head, muscle overtaking any logic for the sake of protecting myself and what I've settled into, I really thought this was _it_. That it wouldn't even take a day before I had to start hurting people to survive.

And even when I consciously realized who was in front of me, the bitter and stinging feeling of rejection from training resurfaced long enough for me to consider hitting him again.

But that wasn't _fair_!

He didn't have a weapon, and the way his eyes lit up with recognition… I didn't want Barric to see that. I didn't want my brother to think I was morally _reprehensible_, especially after the way we left things off.

And Barric aside, I'm supposed to be playing up my helpless little girl act, and whacking equally helpless little boys in the head wasn't going to help with sponsors.

So now we're here, sitting in silence. I've decided to help him find his allies.

The allies that he lost in the confusion of the Bloodbath.

It took me a while to make the decision, but I told Scout as much yesterday, after we moved from the saloon once the electricity went out there, too. Maybe that'll be worth something, in the audience's eyes. I can only guess…who knows how these bastards think…

"So, I know we stayed here all evening today, but maybe tomorrow we can go out early, yes?" Scout starts uncertainly, biting his lip.

"Did you memorize the map?" I ask skeptically, pointing at the scribbles drawn in the dust of our little house. "It's not the most accurate, but it'll do for now."

"Yes… I mean, sort of."

"You need to, so that we can get organized about the way we'll be looking for your friends."

We need to be efficient. We can't keep covering the same ground twice, because the more you walk around the more noticeable you are for the hunters.

Scout buries his head back into his hands, staring intently on the swirls on the floor, indicating the paths and rides. He uses the stick I used to trace it out to trace the patterns through the air, his lips moving silently. _Right, big wheel. Left, main path._

I knock my head back on the wall, trying to get rid of the stupid headache that started earlier today.

"It's so weird, they kept turning off the electricity from every place I went to," I muse out loud, tapping one clean fingernail on my lip. "At first I thought it was just the lights malfunctioning but it's like…"

I interrupt myself.

"Besides, it's not a big deal now, but I think we need to start planning for food, because there's not much of it around here. Once we set out, we'll need to focus on that as well as finding your allies. Equally important."

I have a theory. Took me a bit of time to figure it out, and _maybe_ I'm just being paranoid, but I think they're turning off the lights on us because they want us to migrate closer to the action.

Ma' would do that, whenever there was a particularly noisy and large moth stuck in our house. Turn off all of the lights apart from one to trap the insect in a kill box and squash it. The moth would without fail flock to the light.

Between Scout's placement right next to the most dangerous tribute in our games, to the all-too-convenient power outage in every inhabitable place I settled on, to the suspicious lack of food in our area... it's feeling too premeditated to be random if you ask me.

They're clearly trying to either pit us against the older kids or get rid of us as quickly as possible. But the joke's on them, because if they think I'm just going to take it like a docile little lamb, they are sorely mistaken.

"I have a plan."

"Oh, great!" Scout sighs, clearly relieved. "I was honestly thinking we'd just go looking around, once the dark really settles. I guess the Careers might not be as active, but I can't really know for sure and- "

I interrupt him impatiently, stealing the little stick and tapping it for emphasis on the dusty surface.

"You need to agree to my demands, first."

Scout nods, a little lost. "Of course! Anything!"

"I will help you on the condition that no one… no _ONE_ from your team shoots at me. If they do…" I think about I for a second. "Well there's not much that I'll be able to do, but trust me that it's not honorable."

"Second: I will be allowed to twenty percent of the food shares your team has. I'll trade you for them, and leave. And finally, none of you will attack me until at _least_ the final 8."

Scout giggles nervously. "Why the heck would we?"

"It's the goddamn Hunger Games, _Scout_, not some stroll at the grocery store!" I snap, angry at his lack of understanding. We are talking life and death here!

We're the same age, for god's sake, so why am I the only one making any lick of sense?

"I know, I know, I'm really thankful you're doing all of this for me. But I promise they won't hurt you."

"Okay," I finally settle on.

Scout nods, looking a little confused. As though my concerns are anything but justified.

He's very kind… not a single bad bone in his body. A little clueless too, but I guess that's to be expected with really nice people. But he's like a bleak little moth. I just need to make sure we both don't get squashed.

"So, back home, what do you like?" I ask him, smiling timidly. I just want to change the subject so he stops staring at me with those lost puppy eyes.

"Um… I guess… I have my friend Alex. I think you'd really like them."

He looks really lost, so I encourage him to keep talking.

"There was also Trinity. I wanted to bring her to the arena with me, but they wouldn't let me. She was this little rat, but very feisty. We had a cage for her and everything, but we'd usually let her roam free. Just as long as other people wouldn't see too much of her…"

Scout's voice drops to a whisper, even though there's no one else around. "You know how people feel about rodents…"

"Yeah… especially in District 9," I laugh. "If there's an infestation, they eat your grain and stuff. But I don't know, I always found mice and rats cute. Always made me real sad when I saw them dead in traps and stuff."

"Yeah I was always so scared Trinity would wonder into one," Scout muses, scratching his head again. "But she was _so_ smart. It's like she knew. She was a clever one."

"Ferrets are my favorite animal, though," I admit. "I don't know, there's something just so… cute and cuddly about them? And they're small. Not intimidating or anything… you can hold them and they look at you like you're their whole world."

Scout nods, without a doubt remembering his own pet he left behind.

"Wicked smart too, like rats," I continue. "I remember once around the fields, I found a group of abandoned ferret babies, and I just loved them so much. My ma' didn't want us to keep 'em because she thought they'd have some sort of disease, but I kept one around for a few months until it grew and started running 'round the house."

I sigh sadly. "Ma' made me get rid of it, but I still think of how cuddly the ferret felt. Don't think she coulda given me a disease even if she wanted to."

Scout comes a little closer.

"Yeah my mom wasn't a fan of me keeping Trinity, but I convinced her."

"When my ma' sets her mind on something, forget about convincing her," I joke, and immediately bite my tongue. "Sorry ma', I ain't trash talking, you're great."

We settle back into silence, but it's much more comfortable this time around.

"Little animals are nice," Scout admits.

"Yeah," I agree.

"Did you hear the sounds yesterday?"

Now it's my turn to nod. Despite the warmth, I get little goosebumps all over my arms.

Scout presses further. "What do you think the roars were from?"

I shrug. "Prolly' not the kind of cute little animal we've been talking about."

Scout shakes his head, as though in disbelief. "I was just listening and they kept getting louder and louder, but I'm thinking whatever it is was still in the forest."

"I mean yeah, from my estimates, because we circled back quite a bit, we're the closest to the park's exit. But I didn't see nothing come out of the woods. And remember… no cannons today. Meaning whatever it is … it's probably just meant to scare us to stay in the park."

Scout scuttles over even closer, his arms almost touching mine.

"I really hope it doesn't come our way."

"Yeah me too."

"Well, you saved me, so _if_ a monster came around here, I'd try my best to protect you."

I laugh a little too loudly.

"No offense Scout, but you're so small. I hit you and you went down, and by the sound of it, the monster, whatever it is, is too big to handle by anyone," I counter, matter-of-factly. "The best we can do is stay out of its way and hide."

"Yeah, but I'd still _try_," he blushes, rubbing his hands together as though embarrassed. His ears become bright red.

He's sweet, I think childishly. Too sweet for a place like this.

But I can't keep thinking like this. Momo was sweet too, and he's one of the lucky ones that got out and is allowed to still keep breathing.

Between the very pressing threat of starving and dehydrating if we stay holed up in our shack, the seemingly terrifying beast roaming the forest and the Careers threatening to cut us out of existence, I can get _really_ overwhelmed really fast.

On the bright side though, Scout is not half-bad. And maybe if I help him find his allies, they might have something to offer to me that might just make a difference.

Only time will tell. And I ain't gonna spend that time being afraid of monsters I can't see.

That's the Mona before the training, before the interviews, before the Bloodbath.

But we've got a plan, and I've got a boy who, for all intents and purposes will follow me in whatever I decide to do, as long as it brings him closer to his allies. And maybe… maybe that'll show the audience I'm worth keeping around, instead of turning off the stupid electricity wherever I go!

I look at Scout.

"So, tomorrow. We're up early before the sun. We'll have to assume that Careers are hunting and patrolling during the day and night, so they'll be less likely to do that very early in the morning. We start combing through the park from the side with highest likelihood of people."

"Yep," he says, repressing a smile.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I'm just glad… I got pretty lucky, you know."

I snort. "I don't know about lucky… pretty sure the twenty-four people stuck in these games are the opposite of lucky."

"No but I mean like… I made friends with Bex and Cassie and Roizer. And even when I lost them, I found you and that's pretty great."

"Oh."

"My mom told me I should make _friends_, and I just really lucked out on that."

Scout grins at me, and it's an earnest smile. "So, thanks for everything, really. The plan sounds solid and really smart."

I grin back, fighting back a yawn, to avoid Scout apologizing and offering to stay up instead. "Alright, I'll wake you up when we need to go. Get some sleep, you sappy kid."

"Hey, we're the same age!"

* * *

**Mara Griffith  
****District 5 Female, 18**

* * *

Ever since I willed myself to move away from Andy, I've crawled on all fours into this open shop and stayed here.

Didn't do much, either. Just cried a lot.

Didn't even bother looking for food, even though my stomach is starting to protest. No point in looking for food in this state.

From previous games, I know how you have to be a certain distance from the corpse for the hovercraft to come pick it up, and the couple of times I ever bothered to watch closely, I always marvelled at the stupidity of the tributes who clinged to their allies' bodies, crying, screaming hysterically sometimes.

Some of them had to be physically pried off or shocked back by the hovercraft claw.

I always found it weird… the body is just a husk. And in a life-or-death situation, you'd think humans would have the survival instinct to recognize that and flee as soon as that happened. Cut your losses, even if it's painful.

But finding myself in that situation… I couldn't leave. It's so hard to put together the fact that there was person and now there's not.

Can't stop crying at that awful realization cycling through my head.

At least, no one found me.

A wordless cheery melody plays from a speaker somewhere in the shop.

It's the same goddamn song playing on a loop, and I've only started noticing in the past few hours, as I subconsciously hum it.

A part of me wants to rip the speaker right off the wall. Nothing warrants this kind of happiness in a place like this.

But it's the only thing I'm hanging onto, the only little thread of reality I still have a grasp on.

The dusk really looked magnificent, replaced by the darkened skies. The same skies where Andy showed up looking clean and happy and not-bleeding, confirming to me that this was truly happening.

This entire fucking place is just that. So hauntingly beautiful on the surface, but absolutely rotten and warped to the core.

That's the only way I can justify my friend's death.

I sniffle a little, dragging my knees back towards my face. Making myself as small as I physically can.

They say time heals all wounds, but my time here is limited and the awful despair only got worse as the hours dragged on.

There's nothing that I can do to fix this. And perhaps if we're thinking more selfishly, there's nothing here that can fix _me._

For what feels like the millionth time, tears start to leak out of my aching eyes. The trails they leave almost feel like they'll be burrowed in my skin for the rest of my life.

Could Andy cry? He didn't at all, when we were in the Capitol.

But now I'm trying to remember whether he did, in those last moments. From the pain… probably not from sadness. I know he made peace with his death when I was in absolute denial, still.

_Did_ he?

A small beeping noise draws me from my reverie, right behind the open shop.

Slowly, I raise my head and peek at the parachute that elegantly lands on the small path, lit up by many multicolored lanterns. The surface of the parachute looks so infinitely shimmery, or maybe it's a trick of the light.

Maybe it's just that my eyes are permanently glazed over with tears.

There's no mistake though, this package is definitely for me, considering there isn't anyone in a few miles' radius.

My knees aching from staying in a prone position for too long, I stand up and wearily approach it, knife thrust in front of me. It's the only thing I've kept from before I let the hovercraft take my friend's body. The hoodie is gone too, because I couldn't bear looking at the dark stain on its side.

His blood all over it.

I shudder just at the memory.

You'd think someone like me from the scummiest place of District 5 would get used to death by now. You'd think someone who has seen dozens of people drop like flies surrounded by sparks of electricity would be immune to the thought of death.

I pick up the package attached to the parachute and open it.

It's a small cupcake, with galaxy blue frosting on top, sporting a lone candle.

_Andy_.

I instantly shatter, as if I am an expensive porcelain cup being dropped onto a concrete floor.

There's no closure to this… I can't pretend like there could ever be.

I know exactly what this means, but I can't … I just can't come to terms with the unfairness of it all!

My knees sting from sinking to the ground so quickly, cradling the pastry in my hands as though it's priceless.

It is, to me.

I imagine Triss somewhere, in a control room, watching over me. I _know_ he liked Andy more. Hell, I liked Andy more. But Triss is the kind of person to really shoulder this kind of pain. Even though he only knew us for a couple of days, I could see that he really genuinely cared.

And I failed him, too.

I look up at the sky for guidance, and receive nothing else. _You need to move on_. For some reason, the words are in Andy's voice.

And maybe that's the moment I finally crack, because first I start humming, and then singing.

"Happy birthday, to you," I whisper brokenly, sobs threatening to overtake me. I've gone crazy, and I only imagine how scary I must look, crouching over this tiny sad-looking cupcake like some haggard witch.

But, I need to get through the fucking song. As though possessed, I stumble back into the shop, looking through drawers upon drawers of useless equipment, until I find a tiny lighter. I light the candle, and continue the song.

I've failed my friend too many times to count.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday d-dear…" I push my face into my dirty palm, overwhelmed by another wave of heartbreak and grief. It takes me a few minutes to compose myself, and by that time, the small paraffin candle is already half-burnt, the wax pooling on the blue swirly frosting.

I take a deep breath.

"Happy birthday, dear _Andy_…" my voice breaks something awful at the mention of his name, as though I didn't repeat it over and over again, begging for him to come back a mere day before.

"Happy birthday to you."

My lips trembling only slightly, I blow out the candle, a tragic echo of our little birthday-in-advance party with Triss back in the Capitol. The flame flickers momentarily, as though defying me, but dies out.

I paw at my face, feeling drained… just _so_ emotionally exhausted.

"Thanks, Triss," I whisper, taking out the candle and breaking it in two. In a poor imitation of a toast, I raise the little cupcake to the sky. "Hope you're happy Andy… wherever you are."

I bite into the cupcake.

The pastry is noticeably a few days old, causing another ache to take hold of my heart. Andy was still alive when we made this. He was still laughing and _alive_.

But I need to stop breaking down every time I think of what happened. I have to… to honor his memory. So, I delicately nibble on the cupcake, savoring every flavor, and even the small clumps of salt.

I treasure those especially.

As I finish up the cupcake, I realize just how hungry I actually am, an involuntary sigh of satisfaction building up within me at the small amount of food.

The sigh is caught in my throat as I hear a shuffle behind my store.

Fuck. In my haste to get back inside, I left the parachute in the middle of the path…

Stupid Mara!

I must look like a wild feral animal as I whip my entire body through the doorframe, knife angled directly at the intruder.

A lone dark figure peers at me in alarm, crouching by the open window of my shop.

I almost stick him there and then.

"That was… really _sad_," Abel remarks nonchalantly, but I can see that his dark eyes are also weighed down by … something indescribable for me, at the moment. It's also sadness, but it's off, somehow. To come to think of it, he also looks unbearably exhausted.

I scan him for weapons, and find a very real and very sharp knife pointed at my lower abdomen. But he doesn't look like he's going to lunge.

A huge burlap sack is thrown across his shoulders, filled to the brim with provisions.

"What. Do. You. _Want_," I hiss at him. It's the first words I've spoken to another live human being since… since Andy.

I sound so hostile.

"I'd like to not get stabbed, for starters," he answers, opening his free hand and slowly inching himself to his full height.

"You can carry on," I answer defiantly. "If you want to fight, we'll fight right here."

"I don't want to fight," he answers, and again, the tiredness is just all-encompassing, as though it's physically dragging him down. "I'm sorry for your ally."

I just nod. As though it didn't completely destroy me from the inside out. "I saw… I saw him yesterday in the sky. It sucks."

"Yeah," I answer, because there's nothing better to say.

"Here," Abel starts, reaching behind him before stopping himself and raising his hands in self-defence once again, when I raise my knife. "I won't hurt you, I just want to get food out of my bag."

He does it slowly, reaching for a bag of circular breads.

"Thanks for the fucking _buffet_, I'm not hungry," I spit out, even as my stomach growls in protest.

"Look, Five, I'm trying to be nice," his tone becomes icy, and my frown deepens.

"My name is _Mara_," I respond in like, and I see him physically wince. Andy wanted him to know our names so he wouldn't hurt us. Maybe that's why…

"I know, just- I'm sorry. Take the food, I've got plenty more."

I grab the bag and retreat to the furthest corner of the store.

We sit in complete silence, with only the cheerful music cutting through the air. I try to chew slowly, but can barely keep myself together as I taste the bread. It feels so unbearably good. It's only been a day and a half… for the first time, I wonder how those kids who starve for days on end are able to fight so spectacularly at the end.

Even Triss last year went days without eating before his anti-climactic finale, and he was still sharp as a knife, mentally-speaking.

I guess the desire to live really wins over anything.

I keep chewing, relishing in this if nothing else.

"Why?" I ask, and when Abel doesn't ask for clarification, I continue. "Why did you come to me, if you supposedly didn't give the tiniest shit back in the Capitol?"

He shrugs, still with the same cold disposition.

"I felt bad for you."

I don't answer, and the silence drags on. Finally, as his eyes begin to droop, I tighten the grip on my knife as the thought of harming him springs to mind. Anything to divert the attention away from the raw wound that is my scattered mind.

"If you don't tell me the truth right now, I'm going to kill you," I decide on. He snaps back to attention, and brings his hand to his face. God, he really does look tired.

"Look, honestly, I … I thought I was ready because I am … stronger than most of the tributes. I was ready to fight it out, to sneak around the Careers, to scavenge for food."

I could bet my life on the fact that he hasn't spoken as many words to anyone in a while. Certainly didn't in the Capitol.

"I just… I didn't know I'd get so tired. I'm so _tired_."

"Andy…" he hesitates, as though he's revealed some deep secret, before continuing. "I think we could watch each other's backs. For the time being, before shit hits the fan."

He says it so matter-of-factly that I almost miss the tiny hitch of desperation.

I mull it over, as my brain sluggishly weighs the options. I could see in Andy's face that he wanted me to ally with this guy.

Somehow, he saw something worthwhile in this angry boy from District 12, and I'll be damned if I'm stupid enough to not listen to him now.

"Fine." I acknowledge tersely, before ripping apart another plastic bag and biting into the literal peace offering in the shape of a circular bread cut in half.

"Besides, that's what your district partner was hinting at the entire time we were training," Abel justifies, even as I see his entire body relax incrementally.

He closes his eyes and looks so relieved.

"He's probably somewhere laughing his ass off at me, right now," I mumble into my arm, and with his eyes still closed, Abel smiles. Honest to god, didn't think he was capable of that, from the way he was brooding at the Capitol every time our paths crossed.

My face doesn't change from the stony expression it's been chiseled into, but this is as good as it's going to get, right now.

_Andy, you better be right about this. _

But deep down in my heart, I know he was right, and I damn the universe for taking him away from me.

The lights and music in the shop dim, a prelude to the anthem starting, and both Abel and I look into the sky by habit, even though no cannons sounded. It's crazy how quickly you get conditioned to do something that otherwise would look insane.

The seal of our nation appears in the sky, solemn, even as the music rings loud and clear.

No deaths.

And one entire day since… since I lost my district partner.

I look at Abel, and see him staring back at me.

"I'll take first watch," he offers, and I object immediately.

"You look like shit."

His mouth quirks up, a humorless smile gracing his lips once again. I'm on a roll.

"You look so much worse. You'll take the next watch shift."

Reluctantly, I set my head on the floor, using my arms as a pillow.

"Don't stab me," I warn him, deadly serious, and get a glare in return.

"I wouldn't dream of it, although you clearly look like you'd love for me to do it," he shoots back.

Maybe some sleep will make me reconsider that. Maybe not. Only time will tell.

* * *

_Notes: Hey folks, hope everyone is doing great ! I really tried to make this chapter (a mixed bag of emotions for all the characters involved) as much of a respite from death as possible, because stuff is kicking back into sixth gear in the upcoming days of the Games. _

_Happy birthday to Andy! For any of you who are sad, just think about him chilling in the afterlife, showing everyone proudly how he singlehandedly orchestrated the Abel/Mara alliance. _

_Fun fact, I initially wanted to release this chapter on my birthday, but then life became overrun by exams and other equally annoying garbage, so here it is, a few days later than I wanted. As I begin my 23__rd__ revolution around the earth (or 24__th__, I guess? I ain't too good with numbers it seems), I just want you all to know that this story has been an epic endeavor I've finally decided to undertake over the past year, and I'm dedicated to bringing you more chapters now that I'm older and (hopefully) wiser._

_Peace and love. _


	41. Chapter 37: Day 3 Morning - Corrosion

Day 3: Morning

* * *

**Daisy Jackson  
****District 6 Female, 15**

* * *

It's still dark outside, but I know it's the morning. Everything just has that dark greyish quiet hue, coupled with the crisp and energizing air that comes with the dawn.

I peer at Sparkle's sleeping form and have to resist brushing a few strands of platinum blond hair out of her face. The strands sway to the methodical rhythm of her breathing, _in and out_, and I find myself almost lulled by the movement. For better or for worse, we've decided to stay at the playground. And I like it here because even at night, the lanterns stay illuminated.

Makes it less uninviting that way.

In District 6, you'd always find me near the lights, when I could afford it. _Little moth_, the owners of the local bars used to call me. Wasn't anything affectionate about it, but it stuck and I kept doing it, because I liked the way the light almost warmed the skin… and how the little droplets of dew would settle, looking like tiny precious crystals.

The yellowish light reflects off of Sparkle's face, as I do nothing but stare. Her bold makeup wore off long ago, leaving behind a youthful fresh face. And when she's sleeping like this, she does look so _young_. Her forehead is not creased in concentration and displeasure, which is a stark contrast to the near-permanent frown she sported all day yesterday, cursing herself, the Careers and the Capitol.

It's not like she claimed to be a trap expert, but even then. She still managed to more or less conceal snares and ambushes around our encampment. At the very least they'll alert us if anyone, tribute or otherwise, tries to sneak up on us.

A small pimple on her left cheek is the only thing marring her near-perfect skin. She's scrubbed it clean at the expense of the little water we've had bottled. She's so intent on keeping herself clean, even though it means we'll have to go scouting for water and food sooner rather than later.

She said it's about never losing sight of your worth.

How there's no compromises to be made, even in situations like these.

I never really thought of it as _that_ important, but she insisted, so it must be. Never really thought about it that way… but now that there's so much _time_ to think, now that every minute stretches out agonizingly as she sleeps and I'm confronted by my own thoughts and physical discomfort, I see how much stronger she is.

She sees value in herself and in me, and it boggles my mind almost to the point of hysteria.

I pick at the small scabs on my arms before tucking my arms into the small pockets in the hoodie.

Can't.

Can't do that right now.

Gotta stay top-notch, while Sparkle sleeps.

I bring my wobbly knees up to my chin and lock my arms around them, rocking slowly back and forth, to get rid of the stiffness in my joints. Trying to will my stupid ankle into healing itself faster.

Maybe… maybe they'll send gifts. Medication.

I keep clinging to that foolish ideal, even as my stomach protests loudly.

I try to suppress the noise, as Sparkle whimpers something in her sleep. I gnaw at my lip, shuffling as soundlessly as I can.

It's a bunch of bull-crap. They won't send shit.

No food and no medication. We'll just sit here and rot until the others find us and we die, die painfully, die unaccomplished…

I shake my head violently, trying to dispel the negative thoughts right out, squeezing harder around my midsection to stop the pain in my belly, too.

Again, it's all starting all over again.

I shift around, shivering a little bit even in the comfortable summer air.

Sparkle never said it out-loud, but building all those traps yesterday took a toll on her. It's not easy when you take into account the two days of no food and minimal water. And it's not like I could do much, with my ankle still aching dully. The ankle isn't even that bad compared to the pounding in my head and the feeling of something moving right underneath my skin.

I'm always so useless, it seems.

Useless enough to deserve dying in a place like this, where no one would care.

_No_. I stop myself again. No, Sparkle would care, and that's enough.

Even though I try to stay strong, the ever-present symptoms of withdrawal threaten to overwhelm me at a moment's notice. But I keep scratching and shifting and squeezing so tight that I feel in control, like this useless meat sack I call my body is still mine, not taken over by the animalistic urges that I sometimes can't reign in.

I look at my ally again for what feels like the billionth time tonight.

Sparkle wouldn't like that at all. She'd look a mix of angry and sad, and I'm a loser who was lucky enough to get her as an ally in this shithole. As a friend.

So I need to keep it together. Gotta stay positive. Gotta start by not calling myself a loser.

The breeze is gentle as I look around restlessly and see the horizon getting brighter. It'll be dawn in minutes now. Sparkle will be able to talk some sense into me, and straighten out my thoughts that are so jumbled and in disarray.

_Scratch_, _scratch_.

Another bumpy line visible on my left arm.

Ain't no problem in checking the perimeter once again, right?

Instead of staying put in the pirate ship, I shakily rise to my feet and clamber down a small vertical ladder. The steps are tiny, as though for small kids, so I clear them with little difficulty. Even without the use of my injured foot, I land in the sand, limping forward a little.

As I approach the grass slowly, I notice once again the mushrooms peppering the ground.

They've grown bigger, and there's more of them now, poking through the green tufts of grass.

I make sure I'm at a safe distance from all of the tripwires we've set up. That _Sparkle_ set up, I correct myself.

We've discussed the possibility of eating the mushrooms on the second day, when the hunger finally kicked in, with a vengeance. It's like… we can just _not-eat_, it's a thing, but…

I glance around once again, out of reflex before bending down to inspect the different fungi at their level. Almost by reflex, I scrunch my nose at the slightly tangy odour they emit.

They're mesmerizing.

Some have angulated caps, others have flat ones with bumpy surfaces. All of them have a waxy attractive appearance that looks right out of a storybook.

And seemingly out of nowhere, one little poem from back in the orphanage worms itself into my head, and I can't help but mouth the words.

_With berries it's easy, there's not much to say_

_White and yellow, will kill a fellow. _

_Purple and blue, good for you._

_But if you want to twirl and dance, _

_Dry the psilo, it brings on a trance_

_But heed this warning _

'_Less your ma' be in mourning_

_No matter how friendly they try to be _

_If they smell bitter, leave them alone_

_Unless you want to end up a sad pile o' bones._

The first part was clearly from District 7, their people historically avid gatherers. After all, it's important to know between poisonous and edible things in the woods, if you want to survive in a district that has little by way of imported products. But the second part was all District 6.

I've personally always stuck with synthetic things that would make me feel warm and loved and full of life, but I know of people whose poison of choice were the colourful trips to a fantastical world. From traumatized war veterans to young socialites at parties, I've witnessed these methods of escaping reality.

I shake my head in disbelief. It's not like they'd put an arena full of _that_. There's literal thirteen year olds running around here…

Not that this ever stopped the Capitol.

Being the most persistent devil's advocate in the universe, my stomach grumbles, my brain helpfully supplying the delicious creamy mushroom soup I've had the luxury to taste, during my short-lived time at the orphanage. It could be just _food_…

It could be safe and I could be overthinking this. Not everything is drugged or poisonous or dangerous.

I look back at the ground.

Nope, we're not doing that. Sparkle said not to.

But even as I try to convince myself, I reach tentatively towards the largest mushroom, its cap a pale yellow.

I look back at her furtively, squinting at her prone form, struggling to make out her face.

It's not like I'd die from one, right?

_It's the Hunger Games, you can die from anything, _my brain helpfully supplies and I growl imperceptibly.

In a bid to waste more time (or maybe have Sparkle talk me out of it), I brush my hand under the grass, seeing small white roots going all around and into the blackened dirt. They go deeper into the ground.

It's definitely weird and unlike anything I've seen.

Not that I've had the luxury of prancing around grass-covered earth all that much in the city, but still, this strikes me as unnatural.

I look back at the larger mushroom again, squinting in one last attempt to remember whether I've seen these around in the books at the Center, but that proves to be futile. My brain is just one muddled mess.

In the gleam of the early morning sun, just as some of the rays of sun truly peak through, I make my decision just as I glance over at Sparkle.

I've always believed that the constant desire to do better comes from a simple place. And as of now, with my ankle wrapped up and useless, with my constant shuddering and erratic behaviour, with my weakened bones and frayed mind… I just want to show that I'm a _good_ person. That I bring value to my world, as minimal as it is.

And what the hell…I'm hungry enough that my own dysfunctional stomach keeps twisting and turning. Might as well…

_Plus,_ my brain humourlessly supplies, as I reach down and pluck the hand-sized cap from the soil, _if anyone in this arena can handle a dose of poisonous crap, it's me_. Pretty sure anything short of horse tranquilizer wouldn't bring me down.

I grimace, as I inspect the frilled bottom of the cap, and then without further ado, I take a sizeable bite.

At first, the mushroom itself is coarse and bitter. Nothing like the rich creamy and flavourful ones in the soup or on the luxurious vegetable plates supplied by the Capitol.

Damn.

But I keep chewing, and coughing lightly from the bitterness, but I swallow it. Just in time to look up and see Sparkle's open eyes and very horrified expression aimed straight at me.

She doesn't say anything, her mouth slightly ajar. I almost giggle at the absurdity.

It feels like a whole hour passes as we just stare at each other.

I almost expect a slew of profanities to escape her lips. Like, _hey Daisy you had one goddamn job, are you fucking five years old? I told you a billion times not to eat the goddamn mushrooms and you do exactly that, what the actual fuck, are you a child? _

Except, she doesn't say any of that, and it doesn't come out in a string of words all pushed out in a continuous stream of angry ranting.

Instead she blurts out a confused "oh shit" and scrambles to me, almost falling down the stairs.

And that's when the weird shit starts.

Because I try to stumble back to her, smiling idiotically. I wave my hands in front of me, just to assure her that I'm _fine_, I didn't start foaming at the mouth and that's how it's _supposed_ to go if it's really deadly-poisonous right?

She rushes to me, but I can't focus on her, and what draws my attention instead are the twirling mounds of sand just beyond the pirate ship. Which, on second thought, is starting to elongate and _breathe_.

Breathe?

Does that make sense?

"No no no, what the hell Daisy, oh my god," Sparkle is somehow already at my side, and I look at her a little confused.

Time's a bit wonky. Oops.

And I'm laying on the grass, because she pushed me down. She's hovering above me. The reds, the blues, the yellows of this place… were they always this amazing? Her face contorts, except it's so bright and pretty and her skin reflects the light.

Has it always Sparkled?

She's Sparkle.

I smile even harder.

Someone grabs my face and it only feels like fingerprints on my skin. No pain, just a pleasant numbness that is overshadowed by how beautiful everything seems to be. How in synchrony I am with the rest of the world.

The sounds all rush together, like a wave, but I can still hear her.

"For fuck's sake, why do you want to die like _this_… oh god, Daisy, please…"

Something comes up from my mouth and through my nose spasmodically, but I can't stop my eyes from wondering around as the colours around me melt and dance and twirl.

I vaguely register something sticky on my chin and chest, as I sit up, looking around.

"At least… we know they're edible," I slur, as her eyes shine brighter to a point where I can't even look. Her hair keeps curling and twisting, like a never-ending spiral. There's streaks of silver on her cheeks, and it doesn't seem like she understands, but I've got plenty of time to explain it to her.

Diamonds on her skin?

"Oh fuck, oh shit, Daisy, get up…"

Doesn't have to be right now.

"Daisy watch out!"

It's like I'm hearing her through a filter.

I honestly don't know how long I stay there, but when I do get up, things are still moving and the entire world seems to be breathing with me.

Actually, to come to think of it, things are moving _much_ faster.

And there's something flying towards me.

Sparkle screams again, this time much louder, and in my daze I find her. She's on the ground, wrestling with… a bird?

I almost giggle, before more avian screeches pierce the veil of the cloud I seem to be in.

As my eyes follow the horizon, I see a pack of flying monstrosities careening towards us, and something hits me in the shoulder, sending me sprawling on the ground.

Not a hallucination.

Fuck.

The screams of the birds fill the air, and two rush me, picking me off the ground momentarily and dropping me roughing back down.

What the actual fuck is happening?

"Didn't have enough excitement for one _goddamn_ day, huh?" Sparkle screeches behind me, brandishing a piece of wood with nails in it, a poor imitation of the spiky baton at the Cornupioca- Cornu…

I struggle to form complicated words in my own brain, as the small flowers on the ground start oscillating and beating, like a heart.

One particularly big bird bounces up to me, and I stumble back but it grabs onto my face. I can see its talons right near my eyes, and then something digs right beneath my cheekbones and drags down.

I try to scream, but find my voice stuck in my throat.

It's more that I'm surprised.

To come to think of it, it doesn't really hurt.

Nothing does. Huh.

As the monster… bird scratches at my face, I somehow become acutely aware that the pain in my stomach is also completely gone. In a detached sort of way, everything seems fine, cushioned by some sort of fuzzy remedy.

Including my ankle which seems to be working as well as my uninjured one, as I stumble up to my feet and take a few steps in order to disengage the cursed bird from me.

The world spins, but instead of the nice beautiful hues of the morning amplified by whatever drug trip I'm clearly experiencing, all I get is a mouthful of feathers and more pulling, as though the bird is trying to rip off my face.

Something thuds the bird and my nose cracks, my entire head spinning to the side.

The creature lets go and I shake my head to get reoriented. Still, no pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

It's Sparkle, she grabs me by the arms, and looks more distraught than I've ever seen her. She's got scratches all over her.

Bright red. So pretty…

"I thought it was going to take your eyes out, I'm so sorry!"

I want to tell her that it's fine, but I get distracted by the noises around us, as I get incredibly annoyed at the screeching. It grates my ears, like nothing before. It has to stop.

My eyes find a dead bird on the ground, with more blood coming out of it than from Sparkle's arms, chest and face.

It's just lying there, as the two of us stand there, with this not-hallucination bird inferno raging around us. Oddly enough, it reminds me of a full roasted chicken we were served.

Chicken…

"This is food," I announce to her sluggishly, as I feel more liquid, this time hot and salty, running down from my nose.

"W-What?" she asks confused, before ducking and screeching again, as the bird takes hold of her hair, dragging her a few feet away from me.

For a lack of better explanation, I wheel myself around just in time for another bird to rip into my shoulder. It doesn't grab at me as roughly as the others, so I just throw myself on the ground. The bird lets go, bruised and battered by a full human landing on it.

I dust myself off, breathing heavily, my eyes unfocused from all the movement.

"Chicken!"

Comprehension lights up in her eyes, as she honest-to-god beams at me. I throw myself at the bird near her head, and rip it off too.

It yells, its beak gnashing at me and getting a chunk out, but I don't feel anything.

"FOOD."

She got it.

With an animalistic yell, she jumps back to her feet and charges the fray of birds that are screaming and hissing at us. I realize an instant later that she's laughing maniacally now.

"That's what you get, motherfuckers, die!"

* * *

**Scout Trinian  
****District 4 Male, 13**

* * *

"So, you'll circle right back? No detours, no distractions?"

I nod back, trying to refresh the small dirt map that is already fading away on the floor.

Mona is a little groggy this early in the morning, especially after only getting a few hours of sleep in, and she wouldn't appreciate me asking to redraw it for what feels like the gazillionth time.

"Always stay within view of the windows, I need to be able to see you."

It wasn't the peaceful night the two of us were hoping for, but I'm counting my lucky stars we didn't have anyone bust into our little hiding place.

The Careers were on the prowl once again, but they were a few streets off.

Nothing like that first night, and we were holed up proper.

Scary hearing them talking in the distance, though.

Scary hearing the growls coming from the forest, again.

Mona ruffles my hair a little.

"Hey don't look so gloomy, you'll be back with your allies in no time."

I exhale, not realizing I've been holding my breath.

"Do you really think it's the best idea for us to go out… you know, _one_ at a time?"

Mona shrugs, biting her lip.

"I don't like it. But I just… you saw how they keep huntin'."

Her eyes go distant for a second.

"I don't like sending you out there alone, but think about this logically for a second. Your allies don't know I'm _with_ you. It's better that you go scout," she giggles briefly to herself, "uh… what was I saying? Yes, scout the area, and then we move onto the next sector."

Now, it's my turn to bite my lip and wring my hands together.

I _know_ it's the logical thing to do.

And it's easier to run away and disappear if you're alone. I'll only be doing small perimeters visible from whatever house Mona'll be nested in. We've even got our special 'help' call that I can use at any time, and she'll jump whoever's tailing me.

Mona's got her rifle, after all.

She ain't the most accurate, but she can fire a warning shot as well as anyone out here. We're as prepared as we can be for two thirteen-year olds with close to no life experience.

I'm a pretty good runner, and I'll be as stealthy as I can be.

But I still can't help but feel the twisting anguish in my belly.

Just thinking about what my mom must be feeling…

How worried she must be, in front of the television screen. That's if her boss even allowed her to take time off. I silently pray that he did.

_Please baby, please make some friends there, okay? It might even be alright._

"Hey what are you thinking about?" Mona asks me, as I close my eyes, remembering my mom's words.

_I love you more than anything in the world, Scout. You're my everything._

I purse my lips together in determination. If only for that, I can't afford to get hurt. I need to find Bex and my friends. I need to help Mona the same way she helped me these past few days.

"Ah, uh…" I suddenly feel flustered as tears spring to my eyes. "It's… ah… nothing."

Mona grabs me by the shoulders, looking into my eyes.

"We'll pull this off, I promise you."

"You know what I used to do in the fields when I had to work but really didn't want to? I'd just imagine the _one_ thing I'd get once I got back home," Mona continues soothingly, a determined look in her eyes.

It's not exactly the same stakes, but I let that slide for a second.

"What do you want to _get_ once you meet up with Bexley and the rest?"

I think about it for a second.

"Hmmm… I don't know. I guess I just want to see them and catch up. It's been a crazy few days-"

Mona cuts me off.

"No, this is too general."

I cast my eyes down.

"I just want to not feel so _scared_… I- we played cards the night before we left for the Games. It was…" I smile fondly at the memory, "It was such a fun game. We can teach you. I think that's what I want. Another game of cards, just to feel…"

I do a gesture, showing all the weight coming off of me in one sweep.

She smiles back. "See? Just focus on the cards. Focus on the shapes you'll see, the colors, the feeling of being together. That's your reward. You fight much harder when you keep it focused and small."

"What are you thinking about?" I ask tentatively, straightening my T-shirt and adjusting the hoodie slung around my waist.

She smirks. "I'm thinking of a nice cup of tea and some tasty fried potatoes."

Before I can say anything else, she interrupts me again. "I _know_… I know they might not have that stuff, but as long as I _believe_ they do, I'm gonna fight my damnedest to get you there."

She gives me an upraising look one last time.

"Okay. Be careful. Please."

She gives me the tiniest of hugs and I cling to her, afraid to leave the one person who's stayed with me when I was lost and scared.

She pats me on the back. "I'll be in the windows and I'll shoot any bastard that tries anything."

I nod at her and smile.

"Thanks Mona, I'll see you in a bit."

I jog out of the house, and diligently start mentally checking off the easy directions and steps.

_Right, right, enter building and check quickly, drop a small red fish-shaped paper on the ground, leave building, right, right. _

The fish's for District 4, and it's red because… well, that's the only paper we found and as an afterthought, Mona joked about how it had a double meeting, what with my hair being ginger and all.

When I told her Orla teased me by calling me 'Shrimpie', Mona barely could hold herself together from howling with laughter. I mean… in retrospect I guess it's a _little_ funny, and a lot more sad because Orla's… gone, now.

Anyways, that's why we're leaving these small symbols. To show that I'm still out here, fighting.

If anyone can figure it out it's Cassie. I doubt anyone else will really get the significance. Maybe the boy from One, who heard Orla teasing me. If he finds them and figures it out, then… that's _really bad_. But I can't think about it, right now.

The plan is to just keep leaving the papers we've ripped into crude fish shapes, so that if we don't find my allies today, maybe they can stumble upon one and follow their trails.

It's counting on a lot of randomness and luck, mind you, but we're doing our best with what we've got.

I grin to myself even as I leave a red fishy under a particularly dusty table in a cart-racing booth. _I'm still here guys, and I'm looking for you. And ha! I've got a new ally in tow!_

When I get back to the house where Mona is sitting, her rifle angled towards the window, she makes a small squeaking noise as I come back.

"Wow, so fast!"

I laugh a little bit, tapping my feet on the ground.

"One done, twenty-six more blocks to do!"

I try to sound enthusiastic.

We move quickly to the next quadrant we've outlined on our map.

I do the same jig as before. _Right on the street, another right, enter the shop, leave a red fish and exit. Circle back to Mona. _

After three more blocks, I stop coming back upstairs to Mona, just waving at her through the windows. I'm still careful, but it's a little less nerve-wracking and I fall into a comfortable pattern where I almost forget the hunger in the pit of my stomach.

My thoughts start to wonder a little bit as I keep jogging and leaving small red fish wherever I go.

My mom, she said I was brave.

And I think what I'm doing now is _brave_. I honestly believe it.

I'm sneaky too, running through the streets like that. Just like Trinity. She could probably sniff out my friends with that special nose of hers.

Where would they be?

Cassie would go somewhere isolated, where they'd be able to protect themselves from any intruders. So, it's a pretty obvious thing that they'd be closer to the entrance of the park, since that's where most of the well closed-off and protectable buildings are.

Mona said as much.

That's why we're starting around here, and I can only keep my fingers and toes crossed that we'll find them before I have to go through all of the twenty six sections we've drawn out.

I mean… I'll do it if I _have_ to, but it would be nice to catch a little break.

"Where are you guys," I whisper to myself, as I keep sneaking and running.

I can almost tune out the music, focusing instead on my footsteps.

Objectively, it's childish, but I can't help imagining myself as one of the heroes in Roizer's cartoons and stories. Hands in fists righteously at my sides, I can feel the air going in and out of my lungs, and this almost becomes exhilarating.

I zip in and out of the houses faster than before, gaining more confidence after each is empty.

It's disappointing because I'd love to find my friends, but it's also good news that there's no random tributes appearing to attack me.

Mona was right, this was the right time and place to start this search.

All I can hope for is that my allies find these symbols meant for them.

That Cassie or Bex or Roizer figure out what they mean.

That I'm coming back to them, and it's happening sooner rather than later.

I keep on running.

Only a few more sectors and I'll get to show Bex who the real card boss is.

* * *

**Jean Taylor  
****District 8 Male, 16**

* * *

The trees finally thin, as we peek into the clearing.

They're no longer twisted deformities, rather straight and pointy daggers out of the ground, with the roots trying to trip me at every step of the way. Everything looks like it can hurt me at a moment's notice, causing me to swivel my entire body at every suspicious step that I take, to make sure nothing dangerous lurks in the crevices of the trees.

All this time we walked haphazardly, dead-tired and scared, and at last when the thick looming mist of the forest dissipated, we know we've made it back.

But it doesn't feel like excitement, in my heart.

Just the same tightness and apprehension as before.

It's like these two days in the forest, leaving us starving and afraid, has scattered my brain and replaced the functional threads of thought and memory with… just _fear_.

Irrational painful terror that eclipses everything else.

So even as Logan crashes through the trees onto the flat grass that outlines the half-circle around the Cornucopia, I sulk back, my head snapping wildly from side to side for any sign of danger. He falls to the ground, a pitiful sob building its way in his throat before he suppresses it by digging his hands into the overgrown green weeds below his palms.

I glare accusingly.

_It's his fault_.

No. I can't start that, because even as I try to remember the details of the Bloodbath, things come out confusing and I'm not even sure what's real and what isn't.

_Geoff's death was plenty real. _

_Yes. _

I grip the small flashlight for comfort, still somehow working after being dropped multiple times on the unforgiving ground as we were hunted.

Because we were _hunted_. There's no doubt about it.

Unwanted, the memory of the sharp rows of teeth, the pungent breath, the evil glowing eyes come back to the forefront of my brain and I just want to erase _it_, at any cost. Even if it meant bleaching my brain with the reeking chemicals used at our factories, even if it meant cutting out my own eyes…

God… I wish I hadn't seen it.

Because I can never erase the unadulterated emotion that took over me and never really left. The strong, pure fear, bright and simple, as though nothing else exists in this world.

Even now, just thinking of the monster, of _it_, I can taste saliva thickening in my throat and beads of sweat trickling down my spine.

My teeth gnash together to the point where I feel like I shatter something.

That's what I've been reduced to. To a hunted and terrified animal.

Something about this reminds me of the horses that pulled our chariots. Only now do I realize that those magnificent beasts were terrified out of their minds, their teeth clashing together, their eyes wild.

Maybe they've been beaten into submissive terror, too.

I take a few more shaky steps to catch up with Logan, if only for the sake of not being left alone in this forest. Even in the broad light of day, I can't risk being pulled back, and being mauled, eaten, devoured…

I am locked with that demon in my brain, and…

"Jean, come here!"

Logan whispers it urgently as I duck towards him, levelling myself to the ground out of habit.

"What is it?"

"Smells burnt eh?" my ally asks, and I breathe in deeply, catching a waft of burnt plastic, rubber and… something else that is not immediately identifiable. At first I recoil, but then Logan points towards the Cornucopia and I follow his outstretched fingers.

"The Careers are gone, no movement around the Cornucopia," Logan confirms as I scan the area for any stir caused by something alive.

But for better or for worse, no one _is_ alive on this large stretch of grass, where the twenty four of us stood. I can make out darker spots, but no bodies.

Momentarily, the scene flashes back to the Bloodbath, and I close my eyes, breathing heavily. It passes as quickly as it comes.

"- burned the supplies and left, because they probably realized all the tributes ran to the park."

I nod, if only to have the sudden nausea that overtakes me subside. I absentmindedly roll my thumb over the button on the flashlight, as Logan looks over at me concerned.

He doesn't ask me how I'm doing, just kind-of stares for a few seconds before going back to looking at the Cornucopia.

"I reckon that's where all the food is, anyways, but we can try and get to the mouth of the horn and see if there's anything salvageable."

"Yeah, I think that a good idea," I say numbly, the words sticking like sand in my mouth before being forcefully spit out.

We crawl on the grass, trying to avoid going to full-height with the potential of other desperate tributes jumping out at us at any second, but we make it to the horn uninterrupted.

A loud howl coming from the woods causes me to jump up by reflex, brandishing the flashlight. I'm grabbed almost immediately by the collar of my hoodie and yanked down with zero consideration.

"Dude, stay down, you'll risk getting us killed again!"

I don't say anything while dropping to the ground, and Logan is already moving onto other things, skittering around to the mouth of the Cornucopia and sifting through the charred remains of the supplies.

I squint my eyes imperceptibly, glaring daggers at the back of Logan's head. _Again_?

What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?

I try to stay calm, but obviously, I can't just let something like that slide.

"Oh yeah, _clearly_ like that time you made the decision to go into the forest and had us play docile livestock for a psychotic monster-"

Logan interrupts me, clearly impatient. "We're alive, aren't we?"

I want to retort that _we're alive_ right now because there's positively no one in a 3-mile radius or we would have seen them approaching, but I just let it slide.

I ball my hands into fists twice before releasing the tension by quickly flicking my arms, and start searching through the ashes with my bare hands.

Sooner rather than later, we're both covered in soot from head to toe. Logan emerges from his side of the horn with a small half-melted bag of salted beef, and I find myself triumphantly waving a can of what seems to be conserved pickles.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, we exchange small smiles. As though on cue, my stomach growls loudly enough to alert the nearest tributes, and we both crouch instinctively closer to the ground.

_Like prey_, the unpleasant realization hits me again, but I suppress it.

A silence stretches between us, as our smiles disappear and we're left staring into each others' eyes.

_Geoff would have said we've done a good job. _

But I can't find the strength in me to congratulate Logan, and it seems like he's in the same headspace. It's hard to congratulate anyone about anything after you've been chased by a creature the size of an armoured truck through the woods for two-days' time.

I find myself closing my eyes again trying to forget the terror, in vain.

Instead, I reach out for Logan's find, which he tosses to me. I catch it and busy myself trying to peel back the melted plastic from the salvageable food.

Logan chuckles.

"What's so funny?" I ask, automatically on the defensive before relaxing when I see him clap his dirty hand on his equally-dirty face.

"Naw… just had the stupidest thought."

He digs the heel of his palm into his eye, creasing his forehead. A small lopsided smile tugs at his lips. When I don't say anything, he clarifies.

"Was just thinking about, you know, how this plastic is melted… just wondering if it's safe to eat and won't give us cancer or something."

I stifle a laugh.

"Yeah, I don't find myself caring about that too much, nowadays."

Logan jerks his head back at the forest and shudders.

"Kinda puts things into perspective, eh?"

I pick out a piece of salted meat and extend it to my ally who grabs it and automatically shoves it into his mouth. I watch him chew the piece and swallow, even as my own belly starts protesting.

But something inside doesn't let me take one for myself.

What if there _is_ something dangerous in that packet?

And like… objectively I know that a few-seconds' delay won't change anything. But I still can't bring myself to take a piece of the tough meat until Logan swallows painfully, his throat probably parched for water.

I see the muscles in his neck working as he forces the salty strip down, knocking himself weakly on the chest in a poor attempt at humour.

I finally relent, taking a piece and chewing on it slowly, even as the flavour makes itself known on my tongue. I almost start crying again.

No matter how much we look though, we don't find any water.

"Goddamn it," Logan rasps to himself, as he finds a warped plastic block, which used to be bright blue. A bottle full of _water_.

It's not like they could leave me _one_ measly bottle.

No, I had to be chased down the woods by a nightmarish creation which I could only get terrifying glimpses at the periphery of my vision. I had to fall god-knows how many times, scraping my hands and knees.

Apparently all that entertainment wasn't worth even one _fucking_ bottle.

_Logan had to go through the same exactly thing_, I try to weakly counter the rising anger. But somehow, it's too easy to silence that part of my mind.

_Yeah, but he's not the one coming out of this. You are. _

_You have to, for those pointless little competitions with Safia in Mr. Belcher's shop, to just spend your day admiring the beautiful colours and textures of the dresses and suits of his shop. _

After overturning every twisted and ruined box, we simultaneously come to the same conclusion. We need to head for the park, or we're going to die of dehydration here.

Every centimetre of my aching body rebels against the idea, but I nod at Logan when he jerks his grey-tinted thumb towards the doors of the park.

"Let's find anything sharp, and then we'll head into the park?" he asks, uncertain, trying and failing to take on the leader role. I just look back down to the ground.

When did the fire of our alliance go out?

I stop myself from going down that path, because I know exactly _what_ happened.

So when Logan chooses a sharp piece of metal that probably used to be a machete, I quietly slip a dagger into my boot, without telling him.

_It's better this way. _

All in all, we find two more large knives. Logan wraps his into rags he finds nearly burned to a crisp further away from the Cornucopia, and ties it to the loop on his belt.

I keep mine unsheathed and ready.

It only takes a few minutes to cross the clearing, and the music becomes louder, half-inviting and half-nightmarish.

It strikes me as odd that the forest seemed to drown out all external sounds, and shudder involuntarily at the thought of something as oppressive as those woods, just swallowing you whole…

_Stop_.

This carnival music seems to become more lively as we make it down the small streets, strolling casually near a game venue, and then a large toy shop.

We don't talk, but I find myself staring at the back of Logan's head.

The weight of everything we've lived through hits me like a sack of first-grade flour from Nine. We haven't slept in over two days. We haven't stopped running.

We've lost our friend.

But walking like this… I know objectively it isn't safe. But I yearn to be at peace once again, to not have my heart squeezed tightly by some invisible force that never lets go.

Little by little, Logan's entire body language shifts and although I'm still fully guarded, his posture relaxes and he even lets his piece of metal drag slightly on the ground.

It seems like it's too good to be true.

Only a few minutes later, our momentary tranquility is shattered when a loud voice, projected from some kind of sound-enhancing system, giggles ominously. The voice is distinctly male, if not a little distorted.

"New visitors!"

We both freeze. Back to survival-mode.

No movement around us, even as the blood rushes through my head and my vision turns sharp and crisp.

_What is that_, Logan mouths at me, and we find ourselves back to back almost as if we've choreographed this, circling around frantically. Through my own taut back muscles, I can feel Logan trembling.

I want to say that we'll be okay, that we'll be _fine_, but the useless words die in my throat.

We're a ways away from a small intersection leading to more narrow paths. I catch Logan's attention, his eyes wide as saucers, and point towards that intersection.

_I'm making a break for it. _

Somehow, the blue eyes staring at me go even larger.

He momentarily looks back where we came from. And that's when a jarring alarm and laughter comes from one of the speakers that played music before.

"New visitors have come to play!"

We break into an uncoordinated sprint, buildings flying past us.

I hear something.

Are those footsteps near us?

Through the storm in my head, I can distinctly hear feet hitting the ground.

Shit.

Three pairs. Mine, Logan's and… someone else's.

They're too quiet to be someone who isn't trained.

If I was a betting man, it's a Career.

We're dead.

An alarm sounds right near our heads. A few days ago, I would have screamed in surprise. But, now it's all instinct as I jump up and run, knife in hand. Logan's laboured breaths behind me are the only indication that we're still together.

The alarms are coordinated. They're… they're herding us. They want to kill us here and now.

The anger that mixes only slightly with the crippling dread, like some emulsion of water and vinegar. They're two distinct entities in my mind, two layers of complex and colourful signals firing simultaneously.

But they also push me to one important conclusion. I won't go down without a fight. I won't cower.

Knife ready, pointed upward slightly, I'm going to do what is required to live, goddamn it. My right hand clenches in a fist, nails digging into the palms of my hands almost to the point of drawing blood.

As we cross another intersection, we slow incrementally as the blaring honking of the alarm sounds further away. But I still hear the feet pattering on the pavement. A street over maybe. Maybe closer in an alleyway.

So light.

Almost concealing the fact that this person who is hunting us is larger and more lethal than either of us.

But I know better.

These are the footsteps of a killer.

We stop completely.

I know _they're _right around the corner.

I ready my knife, even as Logan pushes himself towards the wall of the building we are staying next to. He puts a hand to his mouth, and I can see tears forming in his eyes as he looks up in silent prayer.

A blur.

And I stab blindly, closing my eyes so that I don't see the person in front of me because even though I hate these Careers, I hate this place so deeply and_ I hate everything about this situation_, I can't find the courage to face my attacker.

It's too much to ask of me. But, I still do what needs to be done and I keep stabbing-

"Jean, no!"

Logan grabs my shoulder and rips me away from the…

It's not a Career in front of me.

Oh god…

The little red-headed boy in front of me produces a pitiful little whimper, staggering back and reaching for his midsection, with my knife protruding outwards at an unnatural angle.

It takes seconds for his whole front to be stained red, as some blood dribbles out of his mouth.

He almost looks surprised rather than pained, his hands gripping the handle of the knife.

What's… what's his name?

My mind is racing at a thousand miles an hour, even as I release short breaths that seem to rattle in my chest.

People say that you see funny things when something _truly_ terrible happens. Almost as if it's your brain playing tricks on you.

First, I see that the little boy dropped a water bottle, and I see dirty hands, _my hands_, taking it from the ground.

"Oh-god-oh-god, shit-oh-my-god, what have you done, Jean, oh god, do we help him-"

Second, it's impossible for me to reconcile myself with what was done here. So, I don't try justifying it, I don't try rationalizing it. I just allow myself to get pushed away. The last thing I see, before Logan and I run off back to the Cornucopia and towards the woods, is a terrified face in the small building, two small hands on the glass.

And I'm not sure if it's my own brain that is about to boil over through my ears, but I think I hear a muffled wail as we stumble around the building and away from the carnage I've singlehandedly caused.

All I can concentrate on are the sloshing sounds of the water bottle in my hands.

Last time something this bad happened, Logan's hand was on my shoulder, stabilizing me.

Now there's nothing at all.

* * *

_Notes: Oyyyy…guess who's back after an expected-but-then-things-went-sideways-and-shit-hit-the-fan-to-an-unimaginable-extent hiatus? This gal over here. If I could summarize the absolute clusterfuck of the past few months, it would be something out of a poorly-written sitcom on drugs. The clickbait title would sound something like "woman becomes CEO while not knowing what that acronym stands for, wins big, gets her heart broken by her school's administration, learns to love herself for the multifaceted goblin that she is"._

_But I digress…I hope you enjoyed this chapter because it took a while to write, but I can't say I'm unsatisfied. Just… maybe a little sad? Definitely more than a little sad. I'd like to make a quick disclaimer: You should never, under no circumstance, absolutely **never,** gather mushrooms you don't know about. They can kill you or at the very least make you very sick. This is purely meant as fiction, not as a fauna and flora guide of any sorts. Anyways…_

_What did you think of the death in this chapter? How do you think the involved characters will react? Please let me know, reviews and small messages have been a huge inspiration for me, even when it was a simple hello. Also I just wanna say… me trying to drag out the reveal of what the monster is… basically only fun for me and no one else. But we're rolling with it!_

_As you can probably tell, this story will be slower to come out because I'm uh.. believe it or not, in charge of a gazillion things, on council, in grad school and also trying for med-school AGAIN (Nygheeeeeeh). But I'm 100% dedicated to seeing it through so I humbly ask you to stick with me. It'll be worth the pay-off… maybe. Hopefully. _

_Wow these notes really dragged on forever, didn't they? _

_Peace and love. _


End file.
